


His Fucking Family

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All kinds of Mickey, BAMF!Mickey, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Except it's a 6+1 and it's really long, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Humor, I'm still really bad at tags, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Canon Rape, POV Mickey, Protective Mickey, Sweet Mickey, Terry show up so yeah..., Worried Mickey, lots and lots of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fuck it, he’s had enough of this emotional crap for one day. There’s only so much a guy can damn well take. Especially a fucking Milkovich. But dammit, he’s spent enough time wallowing alone in his own misery to know how much it fucking sucksOr, 6 times Mickey Milkovich is there for a Gallagher +1 time they're all there for him.





	His Fucking Family

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a 5+1 and it turned into this monster :D
> 
> It's basically Mickey interacting with each Gallagher and becoming part of the family.
> 
> Hope you like!

 

**Fiona**

 

It’s past two when Mickey finally makes it back to the Gallagher house. It’s been one motherfucking long-ass day.

First, Ian tried to break up with him. Fuck, just thinking about it fucking hurts. Then the cops hauled him into the station because of that crazy prick. They’d let him go since the bitch was fucking insane and she’d been the one shooting at him, but he doubted it was over. Whatever. He’ll deal with it when he needs to. He’s always been a fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy anyway. Then Ian had called him in tears and he’d rushed over because…it was Ian. Next, the redhead had spent about twenty minutes trying to explain himself, something to do with Monica and Frank and not wanting to be a useless piece of shit and wanting Mickey to have his own life. Ha! What a fucking dumbass! As if he had a life apart from Ian. Then when Ian had finally run out of tears (and Mickey too, but that’s besides the fucking point…), they’d just agreed to put the morning’s events behind them and be done with it. Just as they were settling down for a nice fucking nap together (yes, Mickey now takes naps), Mandy had called him, and he couldn’t ignore her so he had to drive all the way to fucking Fort Wayne, Indiana to pick her up and, seeing the bruises on her neck, and everywhere really, had had to make another detour to find that worthless piece of dogshit and beat him to a pulp. By the time he’d gotten back to Chicago it’d been past one and he’d had to get Mandy settled and now, here he finally is. So yeah…motherfucking long-ass day.

The Gallaghers’ door has a combination locking it and thank fuck he actually knows the code or he’d have to either break in or cause a whole damn ruckus which he’d rather not. He lets himself in quietly and plans on slipping upstairs when a sound from the kitchen stops him. At this point, Mickey fancies himself a pretty big fucking expert on the various sounds of crying and there’s no mistaking these noises. Sniffle, sniffle. Short breath. Long, wavering breath. Another sniffle. Maybe a whimper. Yeah, he's pretty fucking familiar with this. He’s also familiar enough with Ian’s crying to know that it’s not him. He’s almost sure it’s a girl, actually.

Fuck it, he’s had enough of this emotional crap for one day. There’s only so much a guy can damn well take. Especially a fucking Milkovich. What’s he gonna do anyway? Go in there and fucking hold Debbie’s hand. Or Fiona?! The idea alone makes him uneasy. So he goes off on his merry way and is at the top stair before something stops him. Goddamnit! All these Gallaghers and their hugs and feelings are turning him into a pussy. Since when has he ever felt guilty? Not before Ian and then only for Ian. So what’s this shit he’s feeling for a random Gallagher? He can’t say he’s a fucking fan.

But dammit, he’s spent enough time wallowing alone in his own misery to know how much it fucking sucks, so he drops his bundle of clothes on the landing and slowly makes his way back down the steps, mentally steeling himself for a whole lot of uncomfortableness.

Oh shit… It’s Fiona. Debbie, he can handle. Sort of. But Fiona?! Fuck!

“Hey,” he mumbles casually, striding into the kitchen after taking a deep breath. Fiona looks up, a slight blush creeping over her face. Mickey can tell, though, that she’s a little too far gone to really care who sees her crying. He can’t say he knows the feeling. No one has ever seen him all out cry. At least not since he was a kid. Oh, and Ian today. “Wanna coffee?” he tries, wondering how he’s doing so far. Mandy never held back letting him know how much he sucked at this stuff.

“Yeah, that’d actually be good,” Fiona says meekly, wiping at her eyes. “Sorry. Just…shitty day, y’know?”

“Yeah, whatcha doing up though?” Mickey presses, bustling about the kitchen, making sure to make some noise in the process. He could be a ninja when he wants to, but he figures a little noise should help break up the stiltedness that is his relationship (or whatever the fuck) with Fiona. “I usually hit the sack after a long-ass day. Or the bottle,”  he adds, earning a weak smile from the eldest Gallagher sibling. This isn’t so bad, the reasonable part of his mind tells him. Not yet it’s not, the ever-present voice of doom counters, sounding a whole lot fucking smarter.

“Just thinking,” Fiona says, accepting the mug (the one with the rooster, or chicken, or whatever the fuck) from Mickey and letting out a sigh.

“Really? ‘Cause it sounded more like you were crying your ass off,” Mickey says before he can stop himself. Shit, he’s really bad at this. But Fiona seems to find it amusing and lets out a little chuckle.

“Yeah, that too. Today I found out that apparently, I’m not a nice person and that happiness is overrated,” Fiona says with a bit of a hysterical laugh. “And some other stuff, I can’t remember it all right now. Oh yeah! Debbie might be pregnant and she thinks it’s a good idea to have a baby at sixteen!”

Mickey’s actually alarmed.“What the fuck? I didn’t think she was that dumb…”

“Yeah, you’re telling me?! Shit, I feel like such a failure.” Fiona drains a good couple of inches of coffee, setting the mug down hard on the table afterward. “It’s all just a lot to handle. I used to have a lotta help here, now it’s just me, with Lip off in college and Ian…”

“Yeah, how is Ian?” Mickey realizes he hadn’t even checked in on the redhead, assuming he was sleeping. “He take his meds?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Fiona takes a deep breath before answering. “Yeah, he did. But grudgingly. He’s like a goddamn zombie; freaks me the fuck out.”

Fiona’s looking at him like she’s begging him for some reassurance and Mickey has no idea what the fuck to say because he feels the same damn way. “He’ll…he’ll get better, right? I mean, the meds don’t work overnight and shit…” he trails off, finding his little piece less than comforting himself.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Fiona stares down into the murky depths of her mug before perking back up. “Hey, I can ask you! From an outside perspective, do you think I’m a good person?”

“What?” Mickey blinks, wondering furiously what he’s supposed to do, or say, rather.

“Do you think I’m a good person?”

“I…fuck…I don’t know. Yeah, I guess,” Mickey trails off, feeling his face redden. He gulps down some coffee as cover but Fiona seems to be expecting some kind of explanation. “You dump your family and run off? You drink and pass out on every fucking surface on the South Side? You shoot up whenever shit gets real? You beat on the kids here? Pretty sure it’s four no’s and that’s pretty damn good.”

Fiona just grins. “Not exactly Brady Brunch standards here, huh?”

“Not Modern fucking Family either.”

Fiona actually laughs. “Yeah, well, generally a family includes a set of parents. Gallaghers,” she sighs turning back serious. “Always finding new ways to fuck up.”

“Hey, you know what? You guys are fine, compared to my shithole family and I’m pretty sure it’s because of you.”

Fiona stares at him quietly, her eyes definitely softening, as she considers his words.

He looks away.

“You really think so?” She finally asks, sounding choked up.

He forces himself to look at her and actually tell her the truth and not flee the fuck outta there. Good practice for with Ian, right? Yeah, this has nothing to do with actually wanting Fiona to feel good. “Hey, I don’t know the fucking ins and outs of your shit, but I’m pretty sure you raised five fucking kids on your own and you did a damn good job and that’s with never asking for this mess. Ian thinks the fucking world of you, anyway. Gets kind of annoying after a while. But Lip is an asshole, so you must have done something wrong with him.” Mickey adds that last bit, hoping to inject some comic relief to the sudden serious turn that the conversation has taken.

Fiona smiles and drains the rest of her coffee before answering. “Yeah, I must have fucked up my first one, you know? You live and learn.”

Mickey answers with some kind of eyebrow shrug thing because what the fuck does he know about parenting? Oh right, he’s got a kid. Fuck, he’d completely forgotten about the rugrat today. “Oh, and you know, for the record, I’ve been told I’m not ‘nice’ most days of my life if that makes you feel any fucking better.”

“Yeah, but you’re not very….” Fiona trails off, realizing what she was about to say. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Mickey smirks. “I’m not very nice? I fucking know that. Someone tell you happiness is overrated? Well in my opinion nice is fucking overrated. We got shit to deal with, who has time to be nice? Nice guys finish last, right?”

“Yeah, good point.” Fiona rubs at her eyes hard, sighs, and follows that up with an almighty yawn. “You know you’re…you’re much different then I thought you were.”

The Eyebrows™ shoot back up. “That supposed to be some kind of fucking compliment?” he asks brusquely, because, well, that’s just what he does best.

His gruffness, though, seems to lose its effectiveness inside these four walls and Fiona just smiles almost fondly at him (WTF! He hadn’t signed up for this!). “Just…thanks for the little pep talk, you know? I actually feel a bit better.” She seems surprised as she says it, as though she can’t believe it herself.

“Ay, shrink’s always in,” Mickey smiles dopily unable to help himself.

Fiona gets up and yawns again. “Gonna go shower. If we have hot water, of course.” Then, after a roll of her eyes and a hurried goodnight, she pats him on the back and squeezes his shoulder with a sad smile before heading upstairs, leaving Mickey to sort out how the hell that had actually gone okay and, what the fuck, he feels a little better himself?!

Whatever. How does that saying go? Best not to fucking dwell on things, right? Well, the ‘fucking’ is an addition, but everything sounds a little better to him if there are a few ‘fucks’ involved. He better just get up to Ian. Mickey heads upstairs and finds one final little surprise to end the day, (besides for the fact that Fiona sings in the shower and is not very good at it); Ian’s taken over Lip’s room so no more sleeping with a toddler and a snooping teenager with an unhealthy interest in the particulars of a gay relationship (even though said teenager is currently in Juvie). Fuckin’ A. He strips down to a tank and boxers and slips in beside Ian, falling into a pretty damn deep sleep.

 

**Lip**

 

Mickey’s staring at Ian’s eyelashes and wondering how even those thin hairs can be so fucking _orange_ when his phone vibrates, the wood of the night table exacerbating the grating sound in the quiet room. Who the fuck’s calling him at two in the morning? Did he set an alarm for some reason? Maybe Ian did it to fuck with him, who knows? Slowly, with a small groan, he sits up and gropes around for it in the dark.

“What the fuck?” Mickey mutters, seeing the name. _Philip._ “Why’s _he_ calling me now?” He slips out of bed and out into the hallway. Lip often calls to check up on Ian, but not in the early morning hours for Christ’s sake!

“Fuck you want?” he answers the phone rudely, not pulling any punches. Mickey isn’t the kind of person who leads you on; if he doesn’t like you, he’ll make it crystal clear, if he doesn’t have time for you, you’ll know it.

The response is garbled but he thinks he can make out a few words: “Can’t…too much….too fucking much…it’s too late…lost it…”

The fuck? “Ay, you need something then spit it out!” Fucking Lip, man!

“I need…need some…some help…don’t have any…too much…”

So the prick’s hammered somewhere and needs his help, huh? How fucking interesting. Mickey spends a moment contemplating what to do. He can hang up and go right back to bed, he can stay on the phone and taunt Lip, or he can help the dumbass. Two very appealing options and one very unappealing one. Except his newly discovered conscience is somehow suggesting that option three is a good idea. And hey, if he helps Lip then the prick would owe him and that sounds nice. Plus Ian would want him to do it. Option three it is.

“Text me where you’re at, bitch,” he enunciates carefully so Lip’s addled mind can hopefully understand. He’s a fucking genius, he should get it, right?

Mickey slips back into the room and dresses in a warm sweater and a pair of jeans, kissing Ian on the way out. He should be good. Guy sleeps like a baby on his meds. He stumps down the stairs, grabs his coat from where he dumped it over the couch, and heads out into the frigid night, blowing on his hands. Shit, he forgot his gloves and it’s gotta be below zero out here. His phone dings and he checks it, letting out a string of curses. The fuck? He’s gotta head all the way to the North Side for this! Fucking Forest Glen, no less! He’s only ever been in that neighborhood to rob people. In fact, one of his moving truck scams was pulled off there. Why couldn’t Lip call some rich asshole friends he’s surely got stockpiled?

Mickey briefly considers turning back but decides to go through with this. He jogs the two blocks to his place, trying to psyche himself up for his late-night/early-morning adventure, to no avail. The car takes a couple of tries to start but the engine finally catches and Mickey zooms off, fiddling around with the radio dial until he finds a rock station that’s blasting a vaguely familiar Iron Maiden song. He turns the volume up and digs into his pocket for a cigarette and by the time he’s on the I-90, he’s thoroughly enjoying himself, cruising along in the dead of night. A gunshot rings out somewhere to his left and he curses himself mentally for not bringing his damn Glock at least. Fuck is he doing, leaving his house at two a.m. without a weapon?! He’s getting fucking sloppy.

He speeds along, alternating between cursing Lip out and trying to get in touch with him, but both his efforts are useless. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, he takes this goddamn weird loop off the expressway and finds himself in fucking Forest Glen. There’s not a soul to be seen on the streets and he wanders around for a bit before finding the approximate location of Lip’s text. Lip is nowhere to be found though.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters, getting out of the car and slamming the door. “Asshole’s gonna owe me.” The place is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree with lawn lights, porch lights, fancy-ass street lamps (that he hopes the city didn’t pay for), and even these goddamn things flanking a couple of driveways where the requisite BMWs are parked. Amazing what people with money will pay for…

It’s not long before he spots a prone figure in front of one of the nicer houses and he hurries over, his breath billowing in the freezing air. Sure enough, it’s Lip, and he’s passed out, vomit all down the front of his shirt and his skin looking deathly pale. He knew Lip drank too much, everyone knew that, but he didn’t know it was reaching Frank proportions. Mickey kicks him roughly, trying to wake him, but he doesn’t stir. He spots the eldest Gallagher brother’s phone a foot away and picks it up, pocketing it. Then, because he doesn’t feel like dragging Lip all the way to his car thirty yards away, he brings the thing there and hauls the guy into the front seat in a semi-sitting position, noticing how fucking icy his skin is.

Mickey’s reminded of the last time he’s had to carry an unconscious Gallagher. “Shit…” That had been bad; Ian would have been raped or something that night. Those pieces of shit were lucky that Ian was in such bad shape or he would have stayed around to deal with them. He wonders if this is the last time, he’ll have to haul a Gallagher brother on his back or if Carl’s and Liam’s turn were up next. Long as it’s not Ian, he’s fine with hauling Gallagher brothers. Gives him something to grumble about.

He’s been driving for ten minutes when it suddenly occurs to him to check Lip’s breathing. The guy hasn’t moved or made a sound since Mickey dumped him in the passenger seat and it’s a little disconcerting. He shoves his fingers against Lip’s neck and feels a pulse that’s a little too faint for his liking so he pulls over to the side of the road and does a more thorough job of checking the guy’s vitals. It wouldn’t really do to have Lip Gallagher die in his car. His breathing is shallow, his pulse is faint, and his skin is fucking cold. Great. Now he’s gotta take the shithead to the hospital. He decides on Rush and speeds there, reveling in the fact that if he’s stopped, the cops won’t even ticket him because it’s a fucking emergency.

Mickey hauls Lip’s ass into the emergency room, breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of people there.

“Think he’s got alcohol poisoning or some shit,” he tells the woman at the desk after dumping Lip in a chair. “That can mess with your head, right? Looks more fucking urgent than anything else I see in here,” he adds for good measure, hoping it’ll get Lip admitted quickly. The woman, who looks like an overaged punkster, with her pink-streaked hair, black eyeshadow, and nosering, just gazes at him dully and shoves a huge stack of papers in his face. Where the fuck do they hire these freaks?

Mickey fills out the forms as best he can, scrounging around Lip’s body for information and coming up with some ID. Apparently, he’s persuasive as fuck because it’s less than ten minutes later that they’re hauling Lip away on a stretcher bed. It’s about 3:30 at that point and he nods off after lazily scrolling through some old conversations on his phone to amuse himself, although most of them are far from amusing. He’s the kind of guy who only deletes old messages when there’s no room for new ones. Unless he doesn’t like them. Then they’re gone the second he reads them and the phone is lucky its screen ain’t shattered. He also tries to break into Lip’s phone, but the fucking thing is locked.

Mickey’s shaken awake a few hours later by some nurse who gets one of the shocks of her life when he grabs her hand in that split second before he orients himself. Ian’s learned to live with it. It only happens when someone shakes him awake, though, so the redhead usually waits for him to wake naturally or sets an alarm.

“Sorry, it’s just…damn reflexes,” he mutters an apology to the nurse who’s now looking at him like he’s fucking Leatherface. “What?”

“Oh, uh…yeah. Mr. Gallagher is awake.”

“He ask for me?”

“No, he’s rather disoriented. Just thought you should know. He’s nearly ready to be discharged. You can see him now if you’d like,” she replies, backing away very sneakily.

“Yeah, okay. Where is he?”

“Room 218. Should I sh…”

“I’m fine, bi-… uh, ma’am.” Mickey catches himself in time and grins which only seems to frighten the poor girl more. He saunters down some hallways, stretching his shoulders, cracking his knuckles and feeling quite a bit better. There’s nothing like scaring the shit out of people to put him in a good mood. That and a few hours of sleep. He checks his phone. 7:54. Shit! Ian’s gonna be up and wondering where the hell he is.

Mickey shoots off a vague text and strides into room 218, smirking as he catches sight of Lip. Guy looks fucking awful.

“Yo! Things got a little outta hand last night, didn’t they Philip?”

Lip turns to him looking dazed, realization dawning on him. “I called you last night.” He says it blandly, like he can’t believe it himself.

“Sure did,” Mickey answers, milking this moment for all it’s worth. “Passed out in fucking Forest Glen freezing half to death.”

“Oh shit…” Lip drops his head in his hands and takes a few deep breaths. Mickey feels something uncomfortably close to sympathy course through his body. He doesn’t like it at all. What level of softness do you have to reach to feel something for Lip Gallagher? “How long am I out? Does everyone know?”

Mickey shakes his head and whips out a cigarette. Fuck hospital rules. “No one knows. You called me sometime around two and you got in here about five hours ago. They said you’ll be discharged soon.”

“Yeah, okay…” Lip looks around the room, a little lost. “Don’t tell Fiona, alright? Fuck…and don’t tell Debbie either, she’ll…she gets weird about this shit.”

“Got it…Gonna have to tell Ian, though. He’s gonna wonder where I went and I ain’t lying to him,” Mickey says, sizing Lip up. He’s an altogether more sympathetic character when he isn’t spewing self-important bullshit. “You need some fucking help, man.”

Lip looks at him, all wide-eyes and fussed hair. For a second Mickey thinks he’s about to be the target of a very confused and semi-drugged tirade, but then Lip just nods once. “Yeah, I know.”

Mickey shrugs as if to say, ‘Hey, you said it, not me’ and then a nurse walks in (not the same one that woke him and he wonders if that’s by design). He tosses Lip’s phone to him and turns to leave. “Hey, so I’ll head home and send Ian back with some clothes and shit, that good?”

“Yeah…” Lip looks like he’s struggling to say more, but Mickey just flips him off and leaves the room in a puff of smoke. He gets quite a few nasty looks on his way out of the hospital.

That night he gets a text from Lip, incidentally, probably the nicest he’s ever got: **Thank you, man. I owe you**.

The next week Lip checks himself into rehab.

 

**Ian**

 

Mickey groans as he stretches. His biceps and triceps and any other ‘ceps’ that might exist up there are fucking throbbing. Oh shit, not to mention his back, now that he’s sitting up. This is all Mandy’s fault. She’d had him hauling dressers and bed frames and even the goddamn oven around yesterday, all in one of her hopeless attempt to ‘spruce up’ the house.

Bitch is fucking insane. Their place was, is, and always will be a shithole. No curtains or shitty throw pillows are gonna change that. But she’s in a bad place so Mickey will indulge her if he has to. Even if it means being fucking sore for a few days. She better make him some goddamn banana pancakes though!

Mickey manages to bring himself to his feet and swears he can hear his muscles creak as he does. He makes his way into their kitchen after pulling on a pair of sweatpants and is momentarily thrown off by the new setup. It had looked really shitty last night but now, in the daylight, it isn’t so bad. He’s not about to tell Mandy though.

“Yo, where’re my pancakes?” he calls out groggily instead, settling down in his favorite chair, a wicker thing with an honest-to-goodness cushion, that he’d lifted from one of his moving truck scams because it looked nice. Ian tells him that it’s ‘patio furniture’ whatever that means… who the fuck has a ‘patio’ around here? He doesn’t get it because the chair’s nicer than any of the indoor furniture they’ve got so why would they put it outside?

“And where the fuck’s Ian?” he adds, realizing that he hasn’t seen the redhead yet. It’s not unusual for him to be up first but he’s usually eating or showering or watching shit by the time Mickey gets up.

“He’s outside. Said he needed a smoke,” Mandy says, digging in the refrigerator for something. It’s amazing that the hunk of junk still works.

“Since when does he need to leave the house to smoke?” he asks, screwing up his face in confusion, but Mandy’s not listening anymore so he gets up and heads outside. It’s a pretty warm day for February in Chicago, probably not even below freezing, so the cold doesn’t bother him, even in his tank. Mickey really only has two modes in the winter. It’s either the too-big, heavyweight, grayish-greenish-blueish coat he lifted a couple years ago, or some shitty sweatshirt. Today is definitely sweatshirt material.

Ian isn’t out front so he goes around to check the side and finds him sitting against one of those massive concrete pillars that hold up the L, smoking.

“Ay, why you out here?” Mickey calls, making his way over.

Ian glances at him but looks away too quickly to be natural. “Just thinking…”

Mickey recognizes this. Not as a depressive episode, thank fuck, he’s up and about, not lying in bed staring at jack shit! But the redhead loves isolating himself when he’s having a bad day. Back at the Gallagher house, it had happened a lot in the early days of his diagnosis. Mickey’d find him on the roof, or the back steps, or even in that dingy basement, that somehow _still_ smelled a bit like meth. Sometimes he’d tell Mickey as politely as he could to fuck off, but other times Ian would ask Mickey to come over and the redhead would lean against him and they’d sit like that for a while, even hours, talking, smoking or doing absolutely nothing.

“Want me to leave you alone?” Mickey asks evenly, sparing Ian the need to tell him if this is one of the ‘fuck off’ times.

Ian looks back up at him with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “No. Come here,” he mutters, patting the space to his left.

Mickey obliges and settles down beside him, as Ian offers him a drag. They pass the cigarette back and forth a few times before Ian speaks. “I feel shitty lately.”

“Mhhmm…” Mickey hums, urging him on after a few seconds of silence.

“I just…I feel like I…I’m stuck, you know? I have no idea what the fuck I want, I don’t have any plans, I just…I don’t even know. It’s not like anyone around here has any goddamn dreams but…shit, is it so much to ask to not be cleaning up other people’s shitty messes for a living?”

“No, it’s not. Quit,” Mickey says quickly. “You hate the job, you quit.”

“And what? Get some lame job at the meat-packing plant? Or at some fucking fast food place? I can’t do shit. I didn’t even graduate.”

“So graduate.”

Ian responds with a sickened laugh. “Not you too.”

“Ay, who’s the one who once told me to go take classes down at Malcolm X? Tall, freckly, gingerhead, you know him?” This earns Mickey a small smile so he continues. “And that was me, alright? You…you can do shit.”

“Yeah, and remember what you said? You said you’re fucked for life. Well, I’ll say it now, I’m fucked for life,” Ian mutters, slumping back against the concrete. “I can’t do shit. Anything I do, I’ll fuck up. Probably go off my meds, or have a fucking breakdown and it’ll go to shit. So I’m just stuck cleaning crap.”

“No, you ain’t.” Mickey hardens his tone, done with the coddling act, but taking Ian’s hand in his nonetheless. “You ain’t stuck. You wanna do more with your life? Here’s what you do: You quit the dead-end job that’s got your sister all over your ass, you go back to school. You’ll fucking graduate in no time because you’re damn smart and then you decide what you wanna do. You can even take shit online these days, right?”

Ian stares at Mickey defiantly, quiet for a while, as if trying to come up with all the flaws in the plan he just laid out. “I…it’s just a lot. I wanna do shit, but I don’t feel like I can and I don’t want to take on too much only to fucking fail.”

Mickey nods. He fucking gets that. Failing fucking sucks. “So you go slow, alright? You take shit as it comes. I mean, fuck! You’re 18! You know what most eighteen-year-olds are doing? Fucking nothing is what. They’re living off their fucking parents, partying their asses off, and messing shit up.”

Ian seems to perk up so he continues.

“And you know what? It’s okay to be stuck for a bit. You don’t gotta have every fucking minute of every day stacked with shit to do. No one thinks of you as a fucking failure, you know? At least I don’t. Shit, I mean what the fuck have I ever done? The only real job I’ve ever held down was that bogus security gig at the Kash n’ Grab. I don’t have a job, I don’t have a plan, I don’t even-”

“Yeah, but you…” Ian interrupts him before he can finish but then thinks better of it.

“I what?” Mickey asks, smirking. A little self-deprecation usually goes a long way in making Ian laugh. “Come on, just fucking say it. I really _am_ fucked for life?”

Ian’s shaking his head and looking down at their clasped hands with a small smile. “No. That’s not what I meant, Mick. I was gonna say that you don’t need that. You’re just….you’re fucking badass. I mean, if you wanted to be some CEO, I can just see you waltzing into a company and a year later being on top, because you’re just…you can _do_ shit. You get what you want.”

Mickey is temporarily silenced and takes a moment to just feel good. No one’s ever told him shit like that and it feels especially nice coming from Ian. He and Ian don’t bullshit each other either so if one of them says something, they mean it. He still doesn’t really take it to heart though, because what the fuck, he knows he’ll always be hustling. Milkoviches and legitimate don’t mix. But the moment passes and Ian’s still looking fucking depressed so he decides to pull out the stops.

“Hey, you remember when we were arguing about Seagal and Van Damme?”

Ian smiles genuinely and nods, looking a bit confused.

“Remember when I told you that Seagal would kick Van Damme’s ass?” Another nod.

Mickey grins. “Well, I take that shit back. I think Van Damme would pummel him. He’s probably a whole lot tougher than Seagal.”

Ian just raises an eyebrow, gazing at Mickey like ‘what the fuck?’. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

Mickey picks at a loose string on the knee of his sweatpants, a small smile playing on his lips. “Because Van Damme is fucking bipolar, so I figure he’s gotta be a tough bastard.”

“How do you figure that?” Ian asks, still smiling despite himself.

“Well, you’re the only fucking reference point I got, you know?” Mickey mutters, looking away to hide the blush in his cheeks. Fuck, a cigarette would be useful now. He’s gotten a whole lot better at telling Ian nice shit because that’s what Ian needed when he got out of the hospital. But it’s still uncomfortable, especially when there’s no fucking emergency and the sun is up and shining and shit’s normal. Somehow, all the feelings bullshit is easier when things are falling apart.

Ian’s staring at him and when Mickey looks back, he spots the tears in those green eyes. “How do you even know he’s bipolar?”

Mickey clears his throat, dispelling with the stubborn lump that had surfaced. “Looked some shit up. Found a whole list of people with it. Churchill and fucking Hendrix too, man. Oh, and that princess bitch from your Star Wars crap.” It’s true. He’d been googling shit about bipolar and he’d found a whole list of famous people with it. Mickey isn’t exactly someone who follows pop culture but he’d recognized a couple of names on the list and then he’d hit Van Damme. Ian fucking loved that guy! So he’d made a mental note to tell Ian sometime but he never did. A few names he’d found interesting himself, but mainly, he remembered them for Ian, like that Fisher girl, Carla, or Carol, or whatever the fuck. Ian’s a real-life, goddamn Star Wars nerd and loves all those crazy-ass characters. Mickey had watched all the shitty movies with him on a few depressing afternoons after his diagnosis, but he didn’t complain because at least Ian was up and smiling even. Well, of course, he complained; grumbled about it endlessly, but really he didn’t mind. There were also guys like Kurt Cobain, which Mickey had decided he’d nicely omit, due to the suicide bit. He hated Nirvana anyway. Too fucking dreary and bitchy or whatever.

Ian rubs at his eyes but smiles as he wraps an arm around Mickey and lays his head on his shoulder. They’re outside and Mickey’s still not too keen on public displays of affection, but who gives a shit? Well…him, but not enough to stop Ian. “You know, Mick… I… Sometimes all this shit really hits hard and I feel like I’m fucking drowning, but then you just walk in and you’re so…just so… I don’t know how to describe it. Real? You just…you make everything feel so fucking normal and good and… Shit, you just make me feel okay, Mick.”

Well shit. That feel nice. Supposedly he still fucking hates this shit, but his mouth seems to not have gotten the memo because it’s smiling and he turns to press a kiss to Ian’s head. And then because he’s Mickey, he needs to mess up the moment. “Only okay?”

He can sense rather than see Ian’s eyes roll. “Hey, fuck off,” the redhead mutters. “And learn how to take a fucking compliment because you’re fucking awesome.”

Mickey bites his lip and shifts slightly and is glad that Ian can’t see how furiously he’s blushing. It’s not often that the redhead gets sentimental, so between the two of them, there’s not a lot of sappy shit going on which he’s just fine with. But when either of them does say something, it means a whole fucking lot and makes them both squirm. Then again, it’s usually when one or both of them are either crying or are on the verge of tears, so…

And now, because Mickey refuses to be one-upped he blurts out “Well I’m fucking proud of your ass,” just to show Ian that he can.

“Bullshit, you’re not,” Ian states blandly just to be difficult. The guy is fucking evil; now he’s pinning Mickey into a corner where he needs to go and elaborate exactly how fucking proud he is and why. Fuck him.

“Yeah, I am,” Mickey says, running a couple of fingers through Ian’s stringy hair. “You were a fucking mess a few months ago and now look at you; you’ve got your shit straight, you’re doing fucking good and you’re gonna go and graduate high school.” He smirks at the last part, proud of himself for working that in.

Ian sits up suddenly, poking a finger in Mickey’s chest. “Fine, Mick. Fine. I go back to school if you get your GED.”

That sneaky little bitch! He’s got that smug-ass grin on too! “What the fuck? I never even got outta 9th grade, how the fuck is that a fair deal?!” Mickey shakes his head, but he already knows that he’ll agree. He’ll always give in to this red-haired shithead. It’ll probably fuck him over in a big way someday but he can’t help it.

Ian sighs dramatically and raises his hand in an ‘it can’t be helped’ gesture. “What can I say, Mick? Life isn’t fair.”

“Fine, deal. Asshole,” he adds weakly, trying to retain a little fucking dignity. “But you gotta clean the damn dishes on Tuesdays too from now on.” Yes, they were now so domestic, they had a fucking schedule of who cleaned what!

Ian smiles and spits on his hand before holding it out to Mickey.

“Hey, fucking gross, man!” He grumbles but shakes it anyway.

Ian’s smile widens even more if that’s possible. “You don’t seem to mind it when your tongue’s lapping up my mouth like it’s fucking ice cream.”

“Fucking context, Ian,” Mickey mutters rubbing his brow and looking around even though he knows no one can hear. Who knows what kind of spy shit the government might stash under the fucking L?

“Context, huh?” Ian smirks, poking his chest again. “You’re gonna ace the GED with that kind of vocabulary.”

“Fuck off.”

“Aaaannnd….that’s the Mickey I know. You know Lip has a t-shirt that would suit you. It says “fuck you, you fucking fuck” on it.”

“Ay, like you’re much better,” Mickey laughs, his respect for Lip instantly going up a notch. “Hey, you know maybe you can get Mandy to go back to school with you?”

Ian nods, stretching his lanky legs out in front of him and glaring at them. “I’ll try but who knows with her.”

Just then, Mandy appears around the side of the house. “Hey! Romeo and Romeo! You dicks wanna get in here before the pancakes fucking freeze?!”

They flip her off simultaneously.

 

**Debbie**

 

Mickey’s scrounging under Ian’s old bed in the Gallagher house, looking for a “small, green notebook” the redhead sent him to find when he hears a door slam.

Growing up in the Milkovich household, Mickey’s heard every level of door-slammage that exists. There’s the “I’m home, motherfuckers!”, which is the lowest level. Then comes the “Someone got into my stash of weed and I’m gonna find out who!”. On the third level is something like “You fucked my girl! You’re a fucking dead man!”. And the last level is pretty much a “My son is a fucking faggot and I’m gonna kill him right fucking now!!” And of course, each of these levels is further divided into more nuanced sub-levels.

Right now, Mickey is impressed because he’s never heard anything in the Gallagher house above a level two. They aren’t very big on door-slamming here. But that, right there, is a high level three. So he abandons his search and goes to investigate. He pauses in the hallway looking around. Fiona’s door is open but Lip’s and Debbie’s doors are closed.

That’s when the sobbing starts and he’s pretty sure Lip doesn’t sob. Mickey snorts just thinking about it. On second thought, maybe Lip does sob sometimes…the image is very disturbing, in all sorts of appealing ways… Whatever, back to the task at fucking hand. If it’s not Lip, then it’s Debbie and that raises a whole slew of questions.

Sixteen-year-old Mickey would kick the door and yell at her to “grow the fuck up!”

Seventeen-year-old Mickey would ignore her.

Eighteen-year-old Mickey would tell one of those fucking Gallaghers that their sister is crying.

Nineteen-year-old Mickey would…should he ignore her? That’s tempting. Should he tell someone? He’s pretty sure no one’s home. He can slip out pretty easily; she definitely doesn’t know that he’s here.

But Debbie’s always been decent to him. She’d taken to his staying at the house last year very quickly, making him feel comfortable when Fiona and Lip were doing just the opposite. She’s the one who visited Ian the most when he was going through his depressive episode. She’s the one who didn’t have any problem prancing into the Milkovich dump and yelling about buying drugs. She’s the only one who felt the need to get some fucking revenge on that bitch as strongly as he did. She’s the one who gave a pretty fucking fantastic testimony during his trial, talking all about the crazy shit that she witnessed Sammi do. And quite simply, she’s the one who’s most like Ian. A girl after his own heart, if such a thing exists. A fucking fighter….

Fuck, why is he waxing poetic about Lil Red? What should he do?

“Shit,” he mutters, listening to her. He’s never been comfortable listening to people cry. It makes him edgy and irritable. But that’s for useless whining, like Yevgeny, when he’s hungry, or Mandy, back when one of her little girlfriends wouldn’t talk to her. This sounds like real anguish, though, and it fucking hurts to listen to.

He decides he’s gotta intervene, plus he figures he’s becoming quite the Master Comforter what with Ian and Mandy.

Mickey taps on the door lightly with no response. He applies a little more force the next time and gets a shaky “leave me the fuck alone” in return.

“Hey, you alright?” he calls through the door, biting his lip while waiting for an answer. The crying stops for a moment, he hears footsteps and then the door is thrown open.

Debbie’s glaring up at him looking all sorts of miserable, her eyes are red and swollen and her hair kind of limp and dank which is unusual. Her hair is almost always nice and shiny, something which Mickey definitely never notices (What? He likes fucking orange hair!). “I thought it was Fiona. Didn’t wanna hear that bitch pretending to be sympathetic right now.”

“Oh. Well, that was an impressively loud fuckin’ slam of the door,” Mickey says, quirking an eyebrow.

Debbie’s mouth twitches but then she falls back down on her bed with a groan of the bedsprings, and stares up at the ceiling. “This sucks.”

Mickey leans against the doorpost waiting for her to continue.

“Just had an appointment today at the clinic… It’s so fucking overwhelming, you know? I thought I’d at least have a little support, but no. Nothing. I’ve got five siblings and none of them can spare a second. Fiona’s downright hostile. She’s still sending me these texts about teen moms. And Lip’s never here anymore. Me and him used to be close…” She closes her eyes at this point and he can see tears escaping her eyes and sliding down the sides of her face.

“And Ian,” Debbie continues after a few deep breaths. “I don’t want to bother him because he’s still getting his shit together. And Carl’s stuck in juvie, though I doubt he’d go with me even if he was out.” She sits back up and looks at him.

“You know the only one who’ll come to appointments with me is Frank? And he’s busy talking about how much more money I’d get per month if the baby’s got cerebral palsy, telling me which vitamins not to take… Ha, as if I’m taking any vitamins at all.” She lets out a humorless laugh which quickly turns into a whimper.

Mickey opens his mouth to speak but she cuts him off. “And I’m not gonna abort, okay? I know Fiona thinks it’s just a couple of cells but it’s really not. I see the baby. It’s got a head and a…a…a body. I want a baby, is that so weird? Why doesn’t she get it?”

“I wasn’t gonna tell you to abort,” Mickey says quickly before she starts talking again. For some reason, he finds it important that she know. The girl’s wrung out, that’s pretty obvious. Shit, is she even sixteen yet? What was he doing at sixteen? Robbing the Kash n’ Grab and banging Ian, is what. A smile pops unbidden onto his face which he quickly stifles. Can’t let Debbie think he’s laughing at her.

Debbie finally breaks out of her funk and looks at him hopefully. “You didn’t think I should abort?”

Mickey sighs. “Look, I didn’t think you should have a baby in the first place. It’s never a good idea to have a baby at sixteen, but once you’re gonna have it then, shit! Fucking get on board.”

Debbie seems to find this enough of a supportive position to smile. “I felt her kick for the first time yesterday.”

“Damn! Really?” Mickey musters up a little enthusiasm. Then he realizes something. “Hey! It’s a fucking girl?!”

Debbie claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh shit! I didn’t mean to tell anyone. I just found out a few hours ago myself.”

“You happy with that?”

“Yeah, I was kind of hoping it was a girl, so…yeah,” Debbie shrugs as if realizing that for the first time herself.

“Well, your secret’s safe with me, Coppertop.” Mickey winks, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction when Debbie rolls her eyes. He also realizes this is one of the longest conversations he’s ever had with a girl not named Mandy.

Debbie seems to sober up after a moment of silence and when she speaks again, it’s just as gloomy-sounding as when she first opened the door. “I just hate going to these things alone. Everyone else comes with someone and for me, it’s either Frank or bust and he smells like shit, so that’s that. And there I was thinking I’d go with Derek.”

“Fuck’s Derek?”

Debbie scowls, grabbing a knick-knack from her night-table and starting to play with it. “Ex. Ran off to Florida. She’s not gonna have a dad.”

She looks to be on the verge of tears again, so Mickey decides it’s time to get serious. “Hey, listen. This kid is gonna be much better off without a dad than with a piece of shit like that.”

“You really think so?” Debbie’s lips quiver as she asks the question.

“Fuck yeah! Believe me, I know. Dad’s can be…fucking nightmares. I’m sure you’ll be a good mom. Maybe one day you’ll find a decent guy to settle down with too. But let me check him out first, because, shit! Your taste in guys ain’t so fucking hot.”

Debbie sighs but also smiles faintly. “I know, right? Gallaghers…we really know how to pick em’.”

Ahh, the trademark Gallagher woe-is-me moment…Every one of the siblings seems to cherish them (none more so than Lip).

“Tell you what, Spitfire, I’ll come with you to these appointments if you want.” The offer slips out of his mouth before his brain can catch up and tell him it’s not a good idea. Besides, why isn’t it a good idea?

Debbie glares at him, getting up from the bed wearily. “Now even _you’re_ fucking with me… It’s not funny.”

“Hey, I’m not fucking with you!” Mickey insists, putting his hands up in surrender. “You need someone to go to these shitty appointments with and I ain’t exactly snowed under here. Ian’ll probably come too when he ain’t busy.”

“Wait, you’re serious?!” Debbie turns back to him from where she’d started digging in her chest of drawers. “You’d really do that?”

Mickey just shrugs, shoulders, eyebrows, and mouth, if that’s possible. “I look like the kinda guy who’ll bullshit you?” A little too late, he realizes that he probably does. It ain’t very easy to shed the trademark Milkovich sneer.

Debbie sizes him up, her mouth slowly curving into a full grin, and then she walks over, wrapping her arms tightly around his back. “No, you don’t. Oh, and sorry,” she says when she lets him go. “I know you don’t like hugs and shit.”

By now, Mickey’s getting used to these Gallaghers and their emotional displays, so he just waves away her comment. “S’okay.”

Debbie smiles. “You know, Gallaghers may not know how to pick em’, but I guess Ian’s the exception.”

Mickey flushes and tries to hide it by turning to look over his shoulder to investigate some imaginary footsteps. “Hey, could you help me find this notebook that Ian asked me for? You know where he used to hide his shit?”

Debbie seems happy to have something to do and soon they’re tearing the boys’ room apart while Debbie tells him about finding Ian’s stash of gay porn and freaking the fuck out.

True to his word, though, Mickey ends up going to all but one of Debbie’s fucking pre-natal appointments (and the only one he misses is on a weekend when Yevgeny is by him and comes down with a fever. But Ian goes that time so she’s not alone anyway). He actually forces himself to be there at the birth and has to bite down really hard on his lip to stop from crying when Debbie names him as the kid’s godfather, which surprises everyone a little and him a lot. What the fuck is a godfather anyway? Ian tells him he’s technically supposed to present the baby at the baptism if they have one. Shit. He doesn’t have a very good history with fucking baptisms.

 

**Carl**

 

Mickey kicks open the back door with his foot and strides into the Gallagher house, dumping the bags on the kitchen table. It’s at the point where he’s grocery shopping for these shitheads. Fiona had somehow gotten hold of his number and now regularly texts him asking if he’s going to the grocery and giving him lists of shit to pick up. Like they’re too goddamn busy to buy their groceries themselves!

He doesn’t expect anyone to be home, so it surprises him when he hears the TV going. It’s probably just Frank, spending some productive hours on the couch. He decides to go all out and grabs the few perishables, stuffing them into the refrigerator indiscriminately.

“Fuck!” Mickey jumps about a foot when he straightens up and finds Carl staring at him, barely a foot away. The kid’s gotten a hell of a lot taller and for some reason has cornrows now. Oh right, he’s been in Juvie.

“Hey,” Carl says quietly, just staring. Fuck, the kid is now eye-level with him. “You’re still around?”

Mickey shrugs, chucking a few now-empty plastic bags into the garbage. “What’s it fucking look like?”

“You and Ian still together?” Carl presses, his face never changing. Mickey jerks his head in what can pass for a nod. “Good,” the kid deadpans, still sizing him up.

Mickey fidgets under Carl’s gaze. The kid is fucking weird, that much he knows. Mickey’s never had much to say to him and the kid isn’t much of a talker, so of all the Gallagher siblings, he’s the biggest mystery. He’s always straight to the point though, never pulls any punches. He remembers the day of Yev’s christening when he’d woken to hear Carl asking Ian some probing fucking questions. Right after ‘is Mickey your boyfriend?” came “Do you love Mickey?”. I mean, what the fuck? Who asks that kind of shit?

Carl’s still just staring and he’s getting distinctly uncomfortable. He has no idea what the guy’s thinking, looking like a wannabe gangsta. He knows the kid’s really a good guy and not as stupid as he looks, based on some things Ian’s said to him and that one conversation they’d had when Ian had run off, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t fucking weird!

Mickey clears his throat. “So, they let you out, huh?”

Carl nods impassively, his hands twitching. Mickey knows the feeling. The fucking edginess of being back in the real world and suddenly having endless hours to do as you fucking please. How everything and everyone seems kind of fake and distant. How shit moves too fucking fast. But his first move had always been to get shit-faced for a couple of days and apparently that isn’t Carl’s.

“Juvie all it’s cracked up to be?” Mickey questions, feeling a strange sense of duty to talk to the kid.

Carl shrugs. “Nice to be back home. The food sucked.”

“That’s it, huh?  Just the food?” Mickey smirks, settling against a counter. Carl is just as vacant as ever. Fuck, this kid is a tough nut to crack. Is he fucking autistic? Come to think of it, Mickey’s never heard him raise his voice, quite a change from all the other Gallaghers. “Hey, they still got that jello in there? That was the only shit I could stomach.”

Carl finally smiles faintly and nods. “Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. But you gotta guard that shit with your life.”

Mickey laughs, a real fucking, deep laugh. “Hey, you’re telling me? I got extra time twice for stabbing these fucking Paddys who tried to steal my shit.” He’d been such a little fucker in those days.

“Stabbing?” Carl asks surprised, finally showing a little emotion.

“With a fork,” Mickey explains, chuckling. Shit, he’d almost forgotten about the fucking jello wars that used to go down in Juvie. Ian had found it hilarious when he’d given an account that first time in the dugout. Then again, it wasn’t really that funny, they’d both just been high as fuck.

Carl nods and then the poker face is back, in full effect.

Mickey sighs. “So what’s next for you? You got a crew?”

The kid nods. “Still with G-Dogg.” He doesn’t seem all that enthused and Mickey takes notice.

“You want out?”

Carl finally stops looking at him and turns to glance into the living room. “Gotta pay my dues, man.”

“Yeah, but would you want out?”

Carl bites his lip and glances down at his hand. “Yeah,” he mutters after a minute, barely perceptibly.

Mickey has no idea why Carl is admitting this to him, but it’s clear he’s fucking depressed about this shit and he knows he’s in a position to help. So he pulls a chair out at the fucking table and sits his ass down.

“Get over here,” he says, nodding towards the table.

Carl turns back, only this time his gaze is more like a glare. “I’m fine, dude. Shit…”

“Hey, the deeper you’re in this shit the harder it is to fucking get out. And by that time, you’re fucking dead meat. So get your ass over here and we’ll figure this out,” Mickey finishes, his eyebrows raised challengingly.

Carl hesitates for just a second and then obliges, though he doesn’t actually sit down.

“So, I got a brother who sometimes works with G-Dogg’s crowd, pretty sure I can get you out, using my fucking Milkovich status; it comes in handy sometimes. Long as you’re still low-level?”

Carl nods. “Was moving up but then I got busted.”

“Good. You’re gonna need some fucking cash though. Ian and I can probably come up with something, but not enough.”

“I got two Gs from before,” Carl says, digging into his pocket and placing the stack of hundreds on the table.

Mickey nods, counting the money. “Alright, that’s pretty good, but you’ll probably have to lose the chains too,” he says, nodding at the gaudy gold necklaces hanging over Carl’s chest. “You look fucking stupid with them anyway.”

Carl flips him off but smiles again.

“Alright, what we really need to do is convince them you ain’t gonna snitch and you ain’t joining the competition. First is pretty easy, since you already did time for them, but the second…What are you gonna do?”

Carl shrugs. “Get a job, I guess. Haven’t really thought about it. I figured I’d be dealing.”

“Why don’t you go back to school? Shit! How fucking old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

Mickey rubs his forehead. Kid is really reminding him of himself. “So…?”

“I can’t go back to school. I suck at that shit.” Carl mutters, glancing at the door.

Mickey scoffs. “Hey, you know what? If I can get a fucking GED then you can finish school.”

Carl’s head whips up, disbelief written all over his face. “You got a GED?”

“ _Getting_ it. Made a deal with Ian. He goes back to school, I get that shit.”

“Ian’s back in school?” Carl openly perks up at this.

“Yep. And Mandy too. You know, if you don’t understand shit, they’ll help you out. You can come over to our place when you need to, it’s like a goddamn study hall these days! Debbie’s still in school too,” Mickey adds as an afterthought. The guy’s sister’s gotta count for something, right?

Carl considers his words for a while. Mickey can tell the whole situation sounds a lot more appealing to the kid if his older brother’s doing the same shit as him.

“Listen, man, I was born into this shit, you know? Never really had a choice. I was moving cocaine at ten, alright? It’s not fucking fun. Shit’s tiring… You’re always looking over your shoulder, always on the run, you can never fucking relax… Yeah, you make money, but you can’t fucking enjoy it. I really don’t recommend it. I know I shouldn’t be dispensing advice, but, shit, I’ll do it anyway: Get out while you can and fucking do something with yourself. You ain’t any fucking stupider than all the pricks in college.” It's not exactly Honest Abe material but it'll have to do.

The rooms is quiet for a moment before Carl speaks. “I’ll go back to school.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… Don’t really wanna spend my life in and outta jail. Can’t exactly get a girl that way.”

Mickey smirks and slaps the kid on the shoulder. “Alright, we’ll do this shit tomorrow? You and me?”

Carl nods, an awkward smile on his face, but Mickey spots the hopeful look there too. The kid is so fucking obvious.

“Ay, and get rid of these cornrows as soon as you can. You look fucking insane!” Mickey grumbles, yanking on one of the stringy ends. “Never understood this fucking hairdo man!”

“What the fuck would you know about hairdos?” Carl asks incredulously. “Your hair usually looks like a wet dog, especially when you have those globs of gel in it. Does Ian actually like that?”

“Hey, fuck you!” Mickey says indignantly. Ungrateful bastard! This is bullshit. He offers to help and this is what he gets in return? Cheap cracks at his fucking hair. His hair is fine, fuck you very much.

Carl’s halfway into the living room when Mickey hears him mutter what sounds suspiciously like “I’ll leave the fucking to Ian”.

Mickey looks around, grabs a roll of paper towels, and chucks it at Carl’s head. The kid just ducks and grins at him widely, suddenly Spongebob fucking Squarepants. Yeah, he’s been babysitting Yevgeny a lot. Mickey shakes his head and gets the fuck outta there before the guy can give him more shit.

That night, though, Ian walks in to find him staring at himself in the mirror, looking disgruntled. What follows is an endlessly frustrating back and forth before Mickey finally just blurts out the question.

“Do you like my fucking hair?”

Ian tries to hide his amusement but then answers seriously. “Love your hair, Mick. It’s hot.”

The next day, Mickey slicks his hair up fucking well, puts on his one nice shirt, because Ian says it makes him look fucking tough (mainly because he came out in that thing) and picks up Carl for their face-off.

 

**Liam**

 

There’s a crash from the kitchen and Mickey sighs, throwing his head back. He’d just come in here for a little peace and quiet after finally, fucking finally, getting Yevgeny to take a nap. And now Liam is probably wrecking the kitchen. Oh, and waking Yevgeny up too. Shit. They’ve been saddled with the two brats ever since the breakout of a fucking late-season flu epidemic, and apparently, he and Ian are the only two people in the South Side that haven’t caught it yet. It probably has something to do with not hanging out at the Alibi, which Mickey rather suspects is at the root of all this evil. And right now, Ian’s not home, so he’s in charge of babysitting two fucking kids.

He hops out of bed and ambles into the kitchen, carefully arranging his face so as not to appear wholly pissed off. He doesn’t have any real desire to scare Liam. He actually considers the kid one of his better friends. In fact, by Mickey’s standards, he and the little man are fucking tight. He knows it’s all sorts of strange that he considers a five-year-old one of his best friends, but Liam is everything he could want in one; he doesn’t talk much, moves quietly, smiles easily, and doesn’t cause any fucking drama. The kid’s been witness to lots of private shit between him and Ian too, so there’s nothing to hide from him. Besides, it’s not like he’s ever had any friends. It’s pretty much Ian and Mandy and those two also happen to be his boyfriend and his sister respectively, so if Liam is on board, Mickey will gladly consider him a friend.

Ian would probably diagnose him with some sort of Antisocial Disorder; he’s been doing that a lot lately. Anything Mickey fucking says or does has Freckleface jumping his ass and declaring exactly what’s wrong with him. Now that the guy’s seeing a fucking shrink, he thinks he’s the second coming of Freud himself and goes around diagnosing shit left and right.

When he woke Mickey up a couple days ago by shaking him, and Mickey responded with his usual aggression, the redhead had diagnosed him with Jumping Frenchmen of Maine Disease. What the fucking hell?! When Fiona had told Ian about being up all night, unable to decide whether to dump another one of her guys, she was deemed to be suffering from Aboulomania. And Mickey’s heard from Lip that apparently, he’s got a serious case of Erotomania. Well, that last one might be true, if Google can be trusted.

 It’s getting fucking weird and Mickey’s just about had enough. Not because of the fucking crazy shit, but because Ian’s also dropping fucking hints that he thinks are subtle about stuff that Mickey likely does have but is really not interested in talking about. And the devious little shit will bring it up when he’s most exposed, literally and figuratively, like after fucking or during a shower. Things like PTSD, a whole host of anxiety disorders and some kind of avoidance shit.  Yeah… fuck. So far he’s been able to brush him off pretty fucking effectively, but Ian is catching on to his tactics and he’s likely to be diagnosed with “refuses-to-discuss-his-fucking-problems-syndrome” any day now.

Mickey shakes his head and strides into the kitchen, to find Liam on his knees trying to pick up the fragments of one of their blue, ceramic bowls.

“Hey, hey, hey! Get away from there!” he calls out, grabbing Liam and lifting him up and out of the way. The kid looks fucking terrified, a look Mickey’s slowly learning to forget. Come to think of it, the kid’s looked rather miserable all week. Probably has something to do with suddenly staying in this dump, with Mickey as one of his primary caretakers. He thought no one’s scared of him anymore but apparently, the rugrat is. So now he’s scaring kids. Fucking great, put him up there with fucking clowns and the Bogeyman. Clowns…don’t fucking get him started!

Mickey is not very keen on being in the same category as clowns so he quickly cleans up the shards and tosses them in the garbage and goes into damage control mode. It helps that Yev has slept through the commotion.

“Hey, come here, buddy,” he says as gently as he can muster, sinking to his knees so as to see the kid better.

Liam gives him a fucking assessing look before walking the few feet over.

“Hey, I don’t give a sh…I mean, I don’t give a damn about the plate, alright?” Fuck! The worst part about kids is that for some fucking reason you gotta watch your language around them. No one watched their fucking language around him when he was a kid! Ah, shit! Right, that might be just the fucking problem…

Liam nods and smiles shyly. “I was trying to get fruit loops.”        

“Alright, we’ll get you fruit loops as soon as you show me your hands,” Mickey prompts. “Oh and knees.”

Liam holds his hands out about an inch under Mickey’s nose, giving him a nice, clear, cross-eyed view of a fucking splinter in the kid’s palm. Shit!

“Hey, c’mere. We gotta get that damn thing out,” he leads Liam to the bathroom where he proceeds to remove the shard and slap a band-aid on the cut. The kid barely even winces which Mickey’s gotta respect.

“Alright, knees next…” Mickey says, gesturing for the kid to roll up his pants. Hey, come to think of it, why don’t they get the fucking bathing out of the way too? “Hey, you know what, how about a bath now?”

Liam considers this and nods, heading out of the bathroom and going over to his little pack to get his things. Everything is so fucking tiny, Mickey wonders if he’d be able to find all of Liam’s shit if the kid didn’t do it all himself. He’s getting used to the bathing that comes with kids; it ain’t so bad if the little man does everything and you just gotta leave the door open and supervise. He still doesn’t get why a kid needs a bath so often, but… whatever. Fiona had left pretty damn clear instructions and he isn’t about to upset the fucking mama bear.

He fills up the tub and even adds some bubbles which Ian had gone out and gotten for the kids (no one needs to know that he’d had a nice bubble bath himself last night…). Liam strips down to his superhero kiddie boxers and Mickey takes a look at his knees, finding them clear, but shit!

“Hey, are those bruises?!” Mickey asks, feeling a surge of white-hot fucking anger coming alive in his chest. The kid’s definitely got some bruises on his thin chest and upper arms. Mickey’s familiar enough with that shit to know. Still, he has to look twice to make sure. “What the fuck?! Who gave you those?” Fuckhead’s gonna get a fucking beating whoever it is!!

Liam just goes wide-eyed and Mickey thinks quickly. He’s sure no one in the Gallagher house is beating Liam, which probably means… ah, shit! Fucking bullies. “Kids at school?” he asks, in what he hopes is a kind voice.

Liam nods, looking embarrassed.

Mickey’s anger settles a bit, though. Least it’s not a fucking adult. This he could handle. “You fight back?”

A shake of the head.

“Hey, how about you take a bath and have your fruit loops and then I’ll teach you how to fight?” Mickey proposes, putting on a dopey grin.

Liam agrees to this course of action with another silent nod and another bashful smile. Damn, why doesn’t this kid talk? He’s kinda cute though, Mickey has to admit. His bath takes ridiculously long and Mickey has to refill the tub about three times before Liam finally deems himself clean. Then comes the fruit loops which also takes a while. Mickey makes himself some fucking eggs meanwhile, to keep busy. Finally, Liam bounces out of his seat (what is it with kids and bouncing?), declaring himself ready to fight.

So Mickey shows him how to make a proper fist and how to put some muscle into his hits. He shows him the right angles to hit someone at and the best spots to do it. He shows Liam how to duck and how to take a punch. He lets the kid hit him again and again and again until he starts feeling it.

After a particularly nice hit right to his gut, Mickey wipes his brow. This is fucking exhausting. “Not bad kid, you’re a fast learner. You’re gonna kick their asses!”

“Gonna kick ass,” Liam agrees, holding out his hand for a fist bump which Mickey returns.

Only then, and a little too fucking late, does Mickey even consider the possibility that teaching the kid to fight might not be the best course of action. Fiona will probably have his ass. Whatever. Too fucking bad. The kid needs to be able to defend himself. This is still the South Side, even with all the yuppies slowly conquering their turf.

The one problem now is that Liam is suddenly getting hyper at eight o’clock. Great, it’s gonna be a long fucking evening. Luckily Ian shows up shortly after and Liam spends a good while boasting to him about his new fighting skills, giving Mickey a much-needed break.

The next day, when Mickey gets home, the little man goes over every detail of the ass-kicking he gave the two punks who’d been bothering him. Mickey pats him on the head, feeling fucking proud. Yep, the kid’s a scrapper.

 

**+1**

 

Mickey’s hands are shaking. He wishes they aren’t for a couple of reasons. One, he can’t light the fucking cigarette that he really, really needs right fucking now and two, he feels like a little bitch, trembling and all.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, heading into the house. He heads for the stove and has to try three different knobs before finding a flame that works, but once he does, he’s finally able to take a much-needed drag, feeling his heart rate calm as the nicotine works its magic.

He’s on his third cigarette when the door clangs open. He jumps and spins around but it’s just Ian striding in all smiles. Mickey turns away from him, trying to compose himself for the inevitable talk he needs to have. Ian seems to sense that something’s wrong and heads over to Mickey, clamping a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s up, Mick?”

“He’s getting out today. Might be out already,” Mickey blurts roughly, dropping all pretenses. There’s no need to mention Terry by name. Ian knows who he’s referring to, at least if the blanching of his face is anything to go by. Mickey can feel his heartbeat speeding up again; saying it makes the situation all the more real. His fucking hands are shaking again too. “Iggy just called to warn me.” He hates the way his voice wavers, how his eyes widen, how his uncooperative lips wobble, how it’s so fucking obvious what a coward he really is and how close he is to losing it. “I’m not…he’s not gonna-“

“Mickey…” Ian starts before deciding better. Instead, the redhead presses their foreheads together and starts stroking his hair gently. Mickey closes his eyes and, against his better judgment, lets him, because, fuck it, this might be the last day they get to be like this. He allows Ian to kiss his forehead and mutter stupid shit in his ear and pat his back and take his hand. He allows himself a few moments of goddamn comfort, although he’s loathe to call it that, before calmly forcing Ian off him.

“I’m gonna take care of this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, his mind working wildly. “You stay away and I’ll take care of this. I…I might go to prison…” Dammit, how long do they give you for manslaughter? Maybe he can prove that it was self-defense? Is he even gonna be able to pull the trigger? He’s a fucking pussy! Everyone’s said it to him at one point or another, even Ian, and they don’t know how right they are. “He’s not touching you again, okay? I got this.” One line seems to run through his head over and over again: _Ian can’t get hurt._ He knows he’ll be able to do it, if only for the guy now looking at him like he’s fucking nuts. “What?”

“You really think I’m just gonna fuck off and let you wait here to face him? Fuck you, Mick, you’re an idiot!” Ian almost looks angry. What the fuck? He just doesn’t get it! The kid was always an idealistic little shit.

“He’ll fucking kill you, Ian! You don’t get it, do you? Hell, you never got it! He’ll put a gun to your head and pull the goddamn trigger and make me watch if he can manage it! So you’re gonna stay the fuck away, you hear me?!” His hand seems to move on its own and he’s shoving Ian up against a wall a little too roughly.

Ian pushes back, pinning him to the refrigerator. “Fuck no, Mickey! No! Do you hear _me_?! We’re getting out of here and we’re gonna figure something out!”

Mickey’s shaking his head. “You don’t fucking get it, Ian! Like I said, you never did. You didn’t get why I had to marry Svetlana, you didn’t get why I needed to kill Frank, and you don’t get why you need to stay away. You didn’t get it then and you still don’t get it now.”

Ian lets out a frustrated yell and turns away, pulling at his hair and taking a deep breath. Mickey glares at his back, feeling something ugly rising in his chest. He’s pretty sure it’s anger and he doesn’t know why the fuck he’s angry at the redhead but he suddenly feels like lashing out. But before he can speak, Ian spins around and grabs his face, trapping his cheeks between those huge fucking hands of his.

“Mickey, listen to me for a second, okay? I get it. I know he wants to kill me. He wants to kill me, and my family, our family, and probably Svetlana, and hell, maybe Yevgeny too. He wants to kill every fag from Boston to L.A and anyone who doesn’t hate them, I’m sure.” Ian’s voice wavers slightly and Mickey can see him swallowing down tears. The sight quiets the anger inside him but he still only listens with half an ear, most of his mind trying to figure out how to finish off his dad. “…But the one guy he wants more than anyone is you. He wants to fucking rip you apart one last time and watch you die. And you still don’t fucking understand, he messed with you so bad, but I love you, okay? I love you so fucking much. Fuck, Mick…” The tears are now spilling over and Ian’s hand are cupping his face tighter. “You’re not alone in this, okay? You don’t need to do _every fucking thing_ alone. It’s not just you against him anymore, you’ve got a whole bunch of people behind you now.”

And Mickey’s nodding, in spite of himself. He wishes he could believe Ian, but he knows, he just knows, that he’ll have to face his dad again and this time, one of them won’t get out alive. He just hopes he does. But right now, those lips he loves so much are right in front of him so he leans forward and placates a frantic Ian with a quick kiss.

“Let’s fucking go. Uh, where are we going anyway?” He asks briskly, heading to their bedroom to grab a few things.

“My old place, obviously,” Ian says, falling into step behind him. He shoots off a few texts and quickly joins Mickey in gathering their stuff in some pillowcases and, of course, garbage bags. They dump anything they like in there, knowing that Terry will probably sack their room and destroy everything.

“Who else do we need to tell?” Mickey mutters, carefully removing a picture they’ve got up of Ian, Svetlana, Yevgeny and him at a fucking park. That had been during their weird summer when everything was working well except for Ian who was working a little too well.

“Svet and….shit, I don’t know…thank God Mandy’s out of the way, right?” Ian says distractedly, dumping their ample stash of lube into a plastic bag. Mickey laughs, a bit hysterically, imagining Terry finding _that_ in their room. Which gives him an idea…

“Hey, leave some of the lube around, right on the damn bed.”

Ian looks at him like he’s crazy again.

“What? He’s already out to kill us, ain’t he?” Mickey smirks, raising an eyebrow. “May as well have some fun while we can and rile the bastard up.” Ian grins at him, all bright and goofy, and Mickey feels like things may be okay for the first time since Iggy called. After that, the strain between them evaporates and things return to normal. Mickey picks out a few guns that he knows are actually registered and then they leave the house, not bothering to lock the door, knowing Terry will just blast his way in, either with his fists or with a gun he’s bound to be carrying.

They head on over to the Gallagher house and Mickey feels a strange sense of calm settle over him. He can do this shit. Whatever happens, will happen, and there’s no fucking point in driving himself insane. All as long as Ian isn’t involved.

They take the back way in and dump their shit in the living room, in that little nook under the stairs that’s seen a lot in its lifetime. Carl, Debbie, and Liam are already there, watching some shitty daytime TV, and less than five minutes pass before Fiona sweeps in, tying her hair up in a tight pony.

“Hey,” she says, giving Ian a hug and Mickey a squeeze on the arm. After many months of deliberations, on Mickey’s part at least, this is the routine they’ve settled into. He figures if she really feels the need to touch him for some reason, his best option is an arm-squeeze.

He gives her a tight smile and she immediately starts rambling. “So Lip’ll be here in about an hour and then we’ll get down to business. Liam’s gonna stay at Kev and Vee tonight just as a precaution. I mean, I doubt he’ll come here, but who knows, right? The baby’s there already too, so that’s that. Everyone else is okay to stay…”

“Fi.”

“…make sure Yevgeny is out of this mess and see if your…”

“Fi!” Ian repeats, louder this time.

“Yeah?” she asks expectantly, brushing the sweat from her forehead with her forearm.

“You’re not helping.”

Fiona seems to snap out of a daze and sighs deeply, her eyes falling closed. “Right. Shit, sorry. I’ll go make dinner.”

“Can I help?” Mickey mutters, his hands fidgeting uselessly by his side. Fiona sneaks a sympathetic look at him (fuck her!) before nodding and the three head into the kitchen.

“Why’d you haul Philip into this shit?” Mickey asks, trying to focus on peeling some fucking potatoes, imagining that they did something to his kid.

Ian shrugs, sitting down heavily in a chair. “Because, like it or not, Mick, he’s the fucking smartest of us all and the most likely to come up with a plan.” His phone chimes and he checks it. “Svetlana’s on her way over…said she dropped Yev off at a friend.”

Huh? “Svet has friends?” Mickey asks incredulously, shaking his heads. “That’s fucking news.”

After that, they tire of making small talk and instead, focus on doing shit. Svetlana arrives fifteen minutes later, toting a fucking gun.

“I will kill piece of shit before he touches Yev,” she explains to Mickey calmly when he stares at her gun. With her arrival, though, things get more tense, since her presence reminds them why they’re all gathered in the first place. She isn’t a frequent flyer at the Gallagher house, otherwise.

Mickey escapes outside to smoke and when Lip shows up, looking dead fucking serious, and claps him on the shoulder, he is for once grateful for the guy’s aloof, logical disposition. He may be an arrogant asshole, but he ain’t evil in the slightest and he’s got a good fucking head on his shoulders and will give them his fucking best.

They head inside, ship Liam off to Vee’s, and that’s when the party really starts. Mickey would not have been hyperventilating earlier if he wasn’t scared. It isn’t just that Terry’s out and he thinks the psycho will come after him, it’s that Terry’s left a couple of fucking terrifying messages on his phone, detailing exactly what the fuck he plans on doing to him and Ian.

The last message, though, had come over a year ago, which only makes his uneasiness grow. They’d probably revoked his phone ‘privileges’ after listening in. Terry’s undoubtedly been stewing for a year and a half and is ready to unleash hell on them when he’s out. And if not him directly, then any one of his many hired guns. Mickey is fucking scared, to the point where he’s not even afraid of showing it. His dad’s reach is fucking long and he knows the maniac isn’t gonna rest until his faggot of a son is gone.

He knows because his dad had given him one chance to “straighten the fuck up” and he’d gone and shit on Terry that night at the Alibi. Terry Milkovich doesn’t believe in second chances.

“Mick?” Ian’s calm voice interrupts his wandering mind and he turns to find everyone in the room staring at him. Fuck! He’s making a goddamn scene here. They’ve been doing this for nearly an hour and it’s getting fucking tiring. There are no easy solutions and everyone’s been looking at him like he’s about to crack, with these god-awful, pitying smiles. It’s getting to be too much.

“Fucking _what_?!” he practically growls, raising his eyebrows inquisitively and lighting his fourth cigarette so far this session. He can see everyone breathe a sigh of relief with the knowledge that Mickey Milkovich is still a jackass. Un-fucking-believable that he’s gotta be the one setting the mood here.

“List of bars he’s likely to go to?” Lip forges on like nothing happened, one of those fancy-ass laptop/notebook things in front of him. Thank fucking God for Lip!

Mickey digs into his memory, trying to remember all of his dad’s old haunts. “There’s _the Raghead, Dolphin’s Garage, Gambino’s Lair_ … Fuck, where else…? Oh, yeah, _Fat Phil’s Saloon..._ and I'm definitely missing one. Shit!...” Everyone’s staring at him intently and then it comes to him. “Of course, fucking obvious… _Big Al’s_. And the _Alibi_ is like fifty-fifty, you know? Doubt it, but who fucking knows.”

Lip nods looking down and scratching his forehead. “Alright, Kev’ll let us know if he’s there. And that’s five spots otherwise. But you say we’re probably safe for tonight?”

“Hey, I don’t know for sure. I’m just telling you what he usually does. We were always sa-“ Mickey shuts up, realizing what he’s about to say. Fuck, why is he spilling all his shit to this crowd? He feels Ian’s hand grip his knee and he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. It’s now nearly eight. “He always got shit-faced the first night he got out, usually didn’t come home, so that’s how it’ll probably go. He’d come in at, like, ten the next day, and sleep it off. Doesn’t mean that’s what he’ll do now, though.”

“I still don’t get why we can’t stash some drugs in the house and call it in?” Fiona mentions for about the tenth time. “Or guns. You said there’re already like five illegal ones there right now.”

Lip flops back in the armchair and rolls his eyes. “Fi, I told you a million times. 1, the charges won’t stick, it’ll be obvious we planted the shit and then that gets back to us, 2, it’s never gotten him before, cops just don’t care about that shit in this neighborhood, 3, let’s just say it does work, it only puts him in for a year max, with his connections, and then he’s back out on the streets. There are really only a couple of options here, we kill him or we set him up for something serious. We can’t kill him because that shit’ll get pinned on whoever does it. There is a concept of justifiable homicide but there are so many factors in that, that we can’t be safe. Illinois has some limited Stand your ground laws, but we’d have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Terry was gonna get violent… Shit, it’s complicated!”

“What if I do it? I mean they’re not gonna give me a lot of time,” Debbie pipes up. “I’m an upstanding citizen, no priors, I’m a mom and I’m a girl. I mean, how are they gonna make me out as the bad guy if it’s me against Terry Milkovich?”

Fiona looks at her incredulously. “You are not going out and killing Terry Milkovich, Debs. What the fuck?!”

Mickey stands up suddenly. He should probably feel something akin to gratitude at Debbie’s offer, as ridiculous as it is, but it just makes him fucking mad. Why the hell are these people doing this for him? He should be handling his own shit. “Fuck this, man,” he mutters, heading for the door, as the room goes quiet. “I’m just gonna kill him and get this shit over with.”

“No, Mickey, you’re not,” Lip says evenly. “You’ve got, what, two, three stints in Juvie, you’re a fucking Milkovich, you’ve got the words ‘fuck u-up” on your knuckles, and unless you’re willing to talk about the shit he did to you, a judge isn’t gonna take kindly to patricide. They’ll throw the fucking book at you.”

Mickey glares at him. What the fuck does Lip know about what Terry did to him?! But obviously, the genius is right so he sits his ass back down between Carl and Ian on the couch and watches everyone pull their hair.

Svetlana breaks the silence. “He is rainbow boy now. They might go easy on him. And there are many witnesses from bar fight at Alibi. They will know that Terry wants to hurt him.”

“It’s not fucking happening, Svet!” Ian scowls, furious at her. “I’m not risking Terry getting to Mick first.” Mickey feels a slight leap in his chest at those words. It feels pretty fucking nice to be defended, to have someone worry about his wellbeing, especially when it comes to his dad.

“Yeah, that’s another very obvious problem with trying to kill Terry,” Lip adds, grabbing a handful of popcorn from a bowl on the coffee table and stuffing it in his mouth. “Guy’s a career criminal. I’m betting he shoots you before you can shoot him.”

“Well, what was that other option you mentioned?” Fiona asks getting up and stretching.

“Getting him caught in serious shit, setting it up. Attempted murder. Assault with a firearm. Criminal possession of a weapon with intent to harm. We could easily get fifteen to twenty years for that shit with his history. And if we get him for that, we can add other stuff on to beef up his sentence,” Lip says glancing at Mickey again. Why does the fucker keep bringing up that shit? “But for that, we’d need to work with the fucking cops, which is always tricky. And we’re running out of time before he actively comes for us. After the Milkovich house of horrors, our spot is his next target, so we’ll have to clear out of here by tomorrow.”

Carl speaks for the first time all evening. “We can call Fiona’s old guy. He’d help out.”

“Oh, shit… Tony?” Fiona sighs but whips her phone out resignedly. “Still got his number if that’s what we wanna do.”

“And he’s gay these days, so he’ll be sympathetic to our cause,” Lip muses, his mouth slowly twisting into a smirk. “Perfect. Let’s get him over here. The worst thing that happens is that we say never mind and he agrees to forget about it. We used to practically talk about stealing shit in front of him. You guys in?” Lip asks, looking over at the couch.

Mickey glances at Ian. “I trust Tony,” the redhead says, nodding. Well, if he’s good enough for Ian, he’s good enough for him.

“Yeah. Shit, just hurry up. I’m going fucking crazy here,” Mickey growls, jumping back up again.

Fiona heads into the kitchen to make the call while everyone gets up and stretches. Mickey follows her and grabs a beer, making for the back stairs, slamming the door behind him. He needs some fucking air. The house feels like a goddamn cell, everyone just sitting around waiting for the hammer to fall. It’s late August and the weather is cooling off quickly so there’s a nice breeze in the air. Probably in the high sixties. He’s barely out there for ten minutes, when the door swings open and someone sits down beside him. He doesn’t turn but when he feels a hand on the back of his neck, he doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Ian.

The redhead doesn’t say anything but slowly starts massaging his neck, then his shoulders, back, and arms. Mickey sighs shakily at the uncommon relief that those hands offer. Ian’s got good hands, like a fucking pianist, slender but so fucking strong, which Mickey always marvels at. How the fuck are his hands so strong when they look so delicate? Where are those muscles hiding? He fucking loves those hands and he loves how they can give such a damn good massage. When Ian finishes he still doesn’t say anything and Mickey still doesn’t look at him, he can’t or he might start fucking crying or something, but the younger guy wraps an arm around him and they just sit there. By the time they spot Tony arriving out front, Mickey’s feeling re-energized, especially since no one bothered the two of them out back.

Ian takes his hand and hauls him up and the two head back in for the next round in this endlessly exhausting game that Terry’s making them play.

They all sprawl out in the living room again and Lip starts a rapid-fire, back and forth with Tony which few of them can follow. Finally, Lip stands up and starts pacing the room, no one daring to interrupt.

“We gotta get him to pull a gun, it’s that simple. And we gotta have cops see it, or he’ll find a way to screw us over,” he begins. “One of us is gonna have to take the risk and bait him. Show our face and get him to follow us. We lead him to a designated spot, cops in the area, and get him to pull a gun. At that point it’s over, they corner him, or shoot him, either way, he’s taken care of. He’s broken parole, he’s a fucking convicted felon, like, what? Six, seven times over? Why the fuck is this guy still out on the streets anyway, man?! What kind of fucked-up criminal justice system puts low-level drug offenders behind bars while fucking homicidal, abusive psychopaths roam free?!! ” Lip rages, kicking at a chair and overturning it. Trust Uncle Sam to rile the guy up…

“I think you have a pretty strong case even if he doesn’t pull the gun, but has it on him and armed,” Tony interrupts evenly. “And if Mickey’s right, you can bet he will.”

“He will,” Mickey assures them. “Hardly ever walks around without something.”

“Well, then that’s it, but who’s gonna bait him?” Ian asks loudly, getting agitated.

“I don’t know…” Lip answers truthfully. “We’ll have to figure it out. But would you guys be willing to do this? Or is this shit illegal somehow?” he presses, turning on Tony.

“Well, there are probably a few cracks in it, but I’d be on board. I know some guys from around here who’d be in as well. Terry’s made quite a few enemies,” Tony says, his eyes flicking around the room. “But I don’t know about the baiting part… I mean, whoever does that is seriously gonna be risking their lives and I don’t know if I can…”

“But is that really an issue, from a legal perspective, like do you have to stop us?” Lip presses. Tony just shrugs and shakes his head. “I thought so.”

“Listen, I’m gonna go and see if I can round up a group of people for this, we’ll continue tomorrow?” Tony asks, looking around. “Should I get a car outside the house?”

“No, that’ll make shit worse. He’s not dumb enough to attack if the cops are here,” Mickey mutters. “All that does is confirm where we are.”

“Alright. Good luck, guys. Call if anything’s up.” Tony lets himself out and no sooner than the door is closed, Lip speaks.

“I’m doing it. And no, none of you can stop me,” he adds quickly. “I’m an adult, I’m not someone he really wants, and I…”

“That’s the fucking problem, dumbass!” Mickey exclaims, getting up too. “You’re not enough to get him to bite. It’s gonna have to be me or Ian and fuck if I’ll let Ian do it. This guy’s my fucking problem and I’m gonna do it.”

“Fuck you, Mick! You can just decide to ‘not let me’ do something?! Well, guess what, I can also decide to not let you do this shit and I won’t!” Ian says, following suit and getting up, a flush settling over his face.

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. Let’s see you stop me. I’ll fucking knock you out if that’s what I have to do to keep you here. Just shut the fuck up and let it go, Ian. This is between me and him, always has been.” Mickey’s aware that the entire room is watching their exchange but he can’t bring it within himself to care.

Ian's stubborn jaw is out but it’s quivering and, fuck, his eyes are filling. “No, it’s not. You know it’s fucking not, I want him dead just as much as you do,” he says quietly, trying to regain himself. “I don’t wanna do it, but rather me than you.”

“You have no fucking idea what he’s capable of, Ian!!!!” Mickey roars in his face, losing it. “What you know, is just the fucking outer layer!! You don’t know…you don’t… I’m doing this shit! Nothing you say is gonna change my fucking mind!! Just stay the fuck away!”

“Fuck you!! Fuck you, Mick! How could you say that?! I fucking watched him rape you! Fuck you!!” Ian’s yelling and crying and shoving him and finally, Lip intervenes, grabbing his brother’s arms and restraining him.

Mickey’s in fucking shock. His deepest, darkest, most fucked-upped secret, one that he could barely even think about himself, just fucking blurted out for the whole Gallagher house to hear. Well, really it’s only news to three of the people here; Fiona, Debbie, and Carl, who are each looking in various states of disgust, horror, and worst of all, sadness. Worst, because it’s always been compassion that gets him, tears down his fucking walls, make him want to scream and lash out and fucking cry. It’s so rare and hurts so fucking much to see other people look at him like that, because where the fuck were they when he needed them? When he still had a chance? When he was eight and curled up on the floor, fucking battered and bruised because he'd had the audacity to ask his dad for ten bucks for a school trip?

Ian’s calmed down and is looking fucking remorseful and really, Mickey can’t blame him. It was quite the low blow for him to suggest that Ian had no clue about Terry, especially when that’s Mickey’s own fucking fault for not talking. The redhead’s tried, but he’s pushed back because he can’t open that can of worms; the fucking fists, the slurs, the scorn, the terror, the fury, the fucking with his head…

Fuck. Fucking Terry.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers, regret written all over his face. “I…shit… I’m fucking sorry, Mick.”

Mickey forces himself to calm down one last time and nod. “It’s okay. I…I’m okay. Not your fault, Ian.” He barely finishes when Ian’s enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug, from the depths of which, he hears Svetlana speak.

“I will do it. Mickey is right. You will not be enough,” she tells Lip. “But he is wrong to volunteer. Terry will shoot him or orange boy immediately. Me, I will have a chance to do job, he will not shoot me. He will want to get information first. I will do it.”

Everyone’s quiet for a bit, considering her point. Then Mickey speaks up. “You can’t, Svet. You’ve got the fucking kid. He… He just might fucking get you.”

“Does not matter,” Svetlana says roughly. “If I die, Yev will be fine with you. If you die, Orange boy will not be fine. Simply a matter of numbers, as you Americans say. I have choice here, I will do it.”

Mickey shaking his head vigorously. “No. Not a fucking chance. Svet, he… You were just as much…” he trails off, suddenly finding hot tears pooling in his eyes. What the fuck? After all the shit today, Svet’s gonna be the one who breaks him? “He fucked with you too, I won’t let you do it.”

“You still do not scare me, Mikhailo,” Svetlana says, this time smiling triumphantly. Everyone in the room feels a little awkward standing there, intruding on what appears to be a pretty fucking intense moment between the two. None of them there, besides Ian, has ever seen the two interact without one of them yelling and calling each other all sorts of names.

Of course, Lip’s the one who breaks it up. “Look, this is all very touching and I mean that seriously, but we need to move on here. I’m gonna do this and it’ll work because you’re all forgetting my most potent faculty.” He pauses, waiting for everyone to catch on.

Fiona looks a little disgusted. “I hope this isn’t another dick joke, Lip.”

Mickey snorts. Of fucking course. “It’s not. Although it’s just as fucking corny. His fucking lip, man,” he mutters because no one else seems to get it. Lip smiles at him and, what the fuck, he smiles back. He also now wholeheartedly believes that there’s a first time for everything.

“Yeah, my lip. I’m gonna rile that piece of shit up until he can’t stand the sight of me anymore-“

“Not gonna take fucking much, then,” Mickey mumbles under his breath.

“Anyway, that’s how it’s gonna go,” Lip says with finality. “If that doesn’t work, then we’ll let you three deliberate over who deserves to die the most. Maybe we’ll let you duke it out.”

Then the moron, who Mickey can’t help but downright respect right now, gets up and yawns. “It’s nearly one, folks, and I’m fucking wiped out.”

“Yes, I will go now. We will talk tomorrow and sort shit out,” Svetlana says, mirroring Lip.

Mickey grabs her arm. “Shit, you can’t fucking go out there Svet. Just stay here tonight. Please,” he adds, hoping to appeal to her softer side.

“Fine. Do you have place?” She directs at Fiona, but Lip jumps in.

“You can have my room. I’ll sleep out here. Come on,” he leaps up the stairs followed by an amused Svetlana. Lip ensnaring another girl, what’s fucking new?

Everyone else disperses until Ian and Mickey are left alone. They head into the kitchen to grab a bite before attempting sleep in that minuscule bed they used to share all the time. Lip joins them shortly after and the three smoke for a while in silence, each caught up in their thoughts.

He and Ian shower together, moving robotically, but Mickey lingers so that when he gets out of the bathroom, Ian’s already in bed. He’s about to follow the redhead when he can’t help but overhear muffled voice coming from Fiona’s room.

“…does Ian mean he had to watch him being raped…” That’s Debbie.

“I don’t know, Debs. I really don’t fucking know. It’s not like they’re big on talking about their shit.” Aaaand…that’s Fiona. And they’re talking about him. Of course.

“I want to kill that son of a bitch!”

“Yeah…yeah, I’d gladly do it myself. Fuck! Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, Debs?”

Mickey pulls himself away, not even knowing what to think anymore, just wanting this fucking nightmare to end. He slips in beside Ian who immediately wraps his long limbs all around him. Carl jumps down from his bunk, his blanket gathered around his shoulders.

“You guys want me to leave? I’ll sleep downstairs with Lip.”

Mickey glances at Ian and then smiles up at the younger Gallagher. “Nah, it’s okay. We’re not gonna fuck.”

It’s a testament to the fucking seriousness of their situation that Carl doesn’t screw his face up in disgust but quietly climbs back into bed. The kid’s been really fucking quiet all night.

Long after Carl’s even breaths have filled the room, long after Ian’s stopped whispering “I love you” every couple of minutes against his neck, Mickey’s still awake. He knows he should feel comforted or some shit by Ian’s arms around him, but somehow it’s only making him edgier. Taunting him, reminding him of how much he now stands to fucking lose if Terry fucks things up. He doesn’t expect to sleep so he starts to at least think of more pleasant shit, like the fact that Liam is safe in Kev and Vee’s place, along with their twins, and Debbie’s baby, who’s his god-daughter. But then, his mind inevitably turns to Yevgeny and he can practically see his son’s perfect fucking face all relaxed and fucking chubby as he sleeps. Before he knows what’s happening, the tears are rolling down his cheek, but he quickly manages to stifle them. His mind wanders instead to this weird-ass Ukrainian song his mom used to-

No, can’t go there either. Jesus fucking Christ! Is there anything he can fucking think about? Steven Seagal. He starts going through some of his fucking one-liners. It’s a tactic he used to use when he was younger. Some people counted fucking sheep, he quoted Steven Seagal.

_So what are you, like some special forces guy or something?_

_I’m just a cook…Yeah, well I also cook._

_I’m gonna take you to the bank…the blood bank._

_The Jury decided, I presided._

_I only shot you in one foot. Hobble to the hospital._

_Well, probably I would like you a lot less if you had a dick. Especially if it was bigger than mine._

 

He liked dick. Ian had a bigger dick than him, and he liked him a lot more than he liked himself…That quote was from _Pistol Whipped_ …his dad had pistol-whipped him…it still hurt sometimes…

_If your daddy knew exactly how stupid you were, he’d trade you in for a pet monkey…_

 

His dad already thinks he’s a monkey…an AIDS monkey…If his daddy knew exactly how scared he was…he’d smile...and finger his gun…and maybe pistol whip him again……

 

* * *

 

Mickey wakes up and his first thought is surprise. Surprise that he actually fell asleep last night. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t. He carefully disentangles himself from Ian’s clutches, dresses, and tiptoes downstairs, his stomach growling. It’s just past six which means he got less than five hours of sleep, but who is he fucking kidding, it’s a miracle he got that much at all.

There’s a package of bread lying around, so he toasts a couple of slices, applies a healthy coating of butter, and sits down to eat. After downing an additional slice and drinking a good eighteen ounces of coffee, he gets up, ready for fucking _something_ to happen. Last night doesn’t feel so real anymore. What were they worried about anyway? Terry’s probably not even gonna come after him… All these fucking precautions for nothing… It was all just a fucking over-reaction, gathering everyone here, hunkering down, like in some fucking bunker…

He paces back and forth between the kitchen and living room, trying to tread carefully so as not to wake anyone up. After fifteen minutes of this, though, he’s had enough and slips out the back door, taking care to lock it behind him.

He really doesn’t mean to start walking, he’d only stepped out for some fresh air and he doesn’t even have his fucking phone on him, but it happens. He’s heading down Wallace, he’s making a right and then a left…wandering. He feels fucking weird. Detached, like he’s high on some really weird shit. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t feel like himself.

Mickey continues walking, trying to shake off the cobwebs. He passes by that abandoned building where that infamous triple-homicide had taken place a couple of years back, leaving three kids under the age of twelve dead. Fuck, he’s never quite appreciated how shitty their neighborhood is. The streets are mostly deserted; criminals like to sleep in and it’s not early enough to still be considered late…

He’s about to turn a corner when it happens.

“FUCKING FAGGOT!! THERE YOU ARE YOU FAGGOTTY-ASS BITCH!!”

He should run, right? Fucking run, preferably in the direction of a police station. Fucking run, why the fuck can’t he run?! He’s trying, he’s…fuck, he’s frozen! This shit really happens… FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! Stupid fucking legs, where the fuck are they when you fucking need them?!

A gunshot rings out and it takes a moment to realize that he’d been hit in the side as he turned to face his father. He’s on his ass now, blood is starting to stain his muscle tee…Fuck, this shit isn’t supposed to happen! They’d come up with a fucking plan…

“THAT’S RIGHT, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER!! FUCKING CRY LIKE THE FUCKING FAG-PANSY YOU ARE! FUCKING ASS-PACKER!”

Mickey only realizes he’s crying when Terry points it out. His hand moves from his stomach, coated in blood from his bullet wound, and he rubs at his eyes, for some reason worried about crying. Terry’s moving closer and closer and suddenly his head is knocked back, hitting the pavement with a sickening crack. And that’s when it happens. Fear. Fucking real, sickening, terrifying, all-consuming, fucking fear hits him, like it never has before. Because as prepared as he was to die last night, he’s not prepared to die now, and that’s exactly what’s about to happen. He’s not getting back up from this corner. He’s about to fucking die.

He tries, he really fucking, desperately tries to bring his hand up to block Terry’s next blow, but he just fucking can’t! He’s losing blood fast. His dad is now straddling his thighs and he can’t help but think blindly that he really preferred Svetlana to this shit. The next hit is harder, this one to his jaw, and he thinks he hears something crack. Terry’s yelling shit about something…

“…YOUR BALLS AND SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR ASS-DIGGING QUEER’S CUM-GUZZLING THROAT!!!”

JESUS, FUCKING, CHRIST! IAN!! If he doesn’t kill Terry then the bastard’s free to kill Ian. Mickey redoubles his effort but by now, everything fucking hurts like fucking hell and he’s fading fast.

“I’m sorry…Ian,” he manages to mumble, through the blood filling his mouth. More hits rain down, with more ferociousness. “THAT’S FUCKING RIGHT! YOUR FAGGOT’S GONNA KNOW HOW YOU CRIED LIKE A FUCKING PUSSYBOY BEFORE I DUG A NICE FUCKING HOLE IN YOUR FAIRY HEAD!! His dad’s eyes are there, gleaming grey, fucking evil… When he was younger, he’d look at pictures of the most fucked up people in history, the Hitlers and Stalins and Pol Pots and Osama Bin Ladens… and he’d try to see if anything was different about them, if you could actually see the hate in their eyes, but now he knows he didn’t have to look that far… His dad’s eyes will suffice.

The gun slams into his face next and his vision’s going, thank fuck he doesn’t need to see those eyes… he sees red… blood…Fuck, can your eyeballs bleed too?

“Fuck,” Mickey chokes one last time, before giving up and letting his eyes close for the last time. He just hopes they carry out that plan…Lip might be able to manage it…

He fucking failed……

 

* * *

 

Pain. All over…

His head feels like someone’s banging on it with a hammer. No, like someone drilled a few holes in it and is now sticking screws in them and rotating. And everything else feels like it's been slamming around a concrete box for hours, hitting the walls, time and again. It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt. Or, maybe not. He can’t really recall any pain he’s ever…who is…what is this…

He opens his eyes, not realizing that only one opens, and looks around. Well, his head doesn’t move but his eye darts around wildly in his socket.

There are other people here. Wherever here is… It’s very bright and white…Maybe this is heaven, maybe he’s dead? But that can’t be; he wouldn’t be in heaven… Why wouldn't’ he be in heaven?...

One of the people meets his eye and gasps and then they’re all looking at him. There’s at least four of them, he can’t really count past four…

He tries to sit up, but that doesn’t work, he tries to reach a hand out, but that doesn’t work either. Is he paralyzed?...

He feels something on his neck and then these huge green eyes appear right on top of his face. They’re very nice. And somewhere on top of them, is a head of bright orange hair, which is also nice. This guy is beautiful, whoever he is? Why is he here?

The guy is crying, that’s all he knows. He wants him to stop. He doesn’t want this guy to cry… There’s something vaguely familiar about him and he knows somewhere that it’s bad when this redhead cries… Why is the redhead still crying? What did he do to him?...

He finds the guy hot, but no one can know, right?... He likes those eyes, but no one can know… The guy needs to go away before he does something stupid, like kiss him… Wait, kiss him?

The guy’s lips are moving so he ignores his pain for a bit and tries to listen in…

“Mickey…fuck, please…can you hear me?...Come on, Mick…”

Who’s this Mick? Or Mickey? Is that him?…

The green eyes are replaced by sharp black ones and there are a few people in white with strange things on their head, but he can’t really do this anymore…

He lets himself go…

 

* * *

 

The next time, the pain is bearable, but the fear isn’t. There’s something he’s forgetting! The room is shadowy and he can make out a few forms off to his left.

What’s he forgetting?! It’s important, enough to get him killed, that much he knows… He was stupid… No, he did something stupid… It won’t come to him, but he’s in danger!... Maybe this is it… Maybe they got him, these people, and are holding hostage here?...

No, the redhead is here… and that guy is not bad… Maybe he himself is the bad guy?

Before he can think much longer, a loud beeping fills the room. It seems to summon more of those people in white……..

Nurses, that’s what the are… which means he’s in the hospital… One of them sticks something in him and tiredness claims him…

 

* * *

 

Ian. That’s the redhead’s name. He’s worked this one out… The guy with the pretty green eyes is Ian… And Ian is also in danger… He must know Ian, but he already figured that. He’s Mickey, he knows that now too. But why is Ian in danger?

 

* * *

 

Ian. Ian. Ian. Ian. Danger. Pain. Ian. Ian. Danger. Ian. Ian. Mickey. Pain… People ask him questions he can’t answer. People poke and prod him and it hurts but it’s never very long before he’s out again. He’s in a hospital, they must be trying to make him better, but it doesn’t seem to be working. His hands and legs are tied down and he really doesn’t like that. He can’t remember why, though.

 

* * *

 

He thinks with his eyes closed now, so no one tries to bother him. It’s easier on the eyes anyway. He wants to tell Ian about his clever trick but he can’t really talk. Ian! Ian’s his fucking boyfriend.

Fucking…He likes that word…He’s Mickey Milkovich! He’s got ‘fuck u-up’ tattoed on his fingers. He’s from the meanest family in the South Side… The South Side…! Shit, his memory feels like it’s restarting after a long break. He feels kind of overworked, but happy. He fucking remembers now…

He and Ian were together. He’d come out to his fucking dad. His dad… Something with his dad… the danger…

His dad! Fuck! His dad was gonna kill him! They’d had a plan. Did the plan work?! He can’t really remember waking up. They’d all come up with a plan that night. Lip was gonna… Lip was gonna do something…

But he’s in the hospital, which means the plan didn’t work. Or maybe it did? He opens his eyes. It’s too goddamn bright! But he needs to know if the fucking plan worked. Where the fuck is Ian now?

He tries to lift his head, and surprise! He actually can, though it sends waves of nausea through his body. But this is fucking important. Where the fuck is Ian? Or Lip? Or any of them…? He makes himself remember their names…Fiona, Debbie, Carl, Liam…Yes, he can fucking remember! All the long-ass days he spent in that house…He remembers it all. Every goddamn detail.

He remembers. But, shit! Why is he suddenly alone here? Would be nice to have some people here to celebrate the fucking return of his memory?! Kind of a big deal! He can hear a loud gaggle of voices approaching and he hopes it’s them. It probably is. Those fucking Gallaghers could never keep their mouths shut! Except for Liam…oh, and Carl sometimes…See, he fucking remembers!

It is them and they glance at him warily as they spread out across the room. Oh right, they still think he can’t remember shit! He manages to croak out an “Ian.”

Then they’re all at his bed in a second, crowding the fuck outta him, all talking at once. They’re blabbering on about old shit, all telling their own stories and he’s wondering what the fuck is going on? Until it hits him, they’re probably trying to bring his memory back somehow.

It makes him smile. They quiet down when they see that. Wait, fuck! He had to know about his dad!

“Ian?” he whispers again.

Ian, who’s got a hold on his hand, leans down to him, looking sad. “My dad? What the fuck’s with my dad? Did you guys get him?”

The redhead’s beautiful, green eyes widen and fill with tears. “Mick?...You there, Mick? You remember me?”

“Of course I remember you, you shithead…” he mutters. “What’s with fucking Terry?”

“He’s…he’s taken care of,” Ian manages to whisper, before breaking the fuck down. And suddenly everyone’s breaking down. Everyone but him. He just breathes a sigh of relief. Terry is taken care of… that means Ian’s fucking safe. They all are. And fuck! Lip does sob. Why the hell is Lip sobbing? His face is buried in Fiona’s shoulder and his whole back is shaking. He really doesn’t wanna see this shit.

“Ian,” he mutters again. He can feel himself fading fast. He might fucking forget again. “Ian…” he mumbles more urgently.

The redhead’s really far gone, but he looks up, his whole face wet and sticky with tears. “Yeah?”

“I fucking love you. In case I forget,” he adds feeling sleep claiming him again.

“Jesus fuck, Mick! I love you too,” Ian whimpers, burying his face in Mickey’s chest.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, he feels a whole lot better, because he can still remember, and he can move his head now, and when he asks, Ian gets the nurse to move him into a sitting position so he can talk without people’s faces hovering over him and feel like a normal fucking human being.

Ian’s here with Debbie and Svetlana. They’re on his left, Ian’s on his right. There’s a discolored, lumpy, goddamn stuffed elephant on his bed.

“What the fuck is this doing here?” he says. His voice is weak and his whole head vibrates and aches when he talks, but fuck it, he’s gonna talk anyway. He can so he fucking will.

“Liam brought it for you,” Debbie says. “It’s his stuffed elephant, Lumpy.”

It's an appropriate name. Mickey closes his eyes for a second, wincing at the sudden sharp stab of pain to his temple, opening them again before speaking. “Why the fuck do I have his stuffed elephant?”

“You were doing these things while you were out,” Ian says carefully, squeezing his hand. “He thought you were having nightmares, so he brought you Lumpy. Helped him when he was having nightmares.”

Aha. See, the little guy is his fucking friend. There’s something he meant to ask… Oh yeah, his dad.

“Where the fuck is my dad?” He addresses Ian, who suddenly looks scared.

“I…Mickey, maybe you should sleep more?...”

“Ian, tell me fucking now! I’ve slept enough. He’s out again, isn’t he? You didn’t get him?”

Ian shakes his head. “No. He’s not gonna bother us again. I…fuck, Mickey, he’s dead!”

Mickey takes a second to respond. But then, relief, pure fucking unadulterated relief and elation, washes over him. He grins at Ian, causing his head to spin. “That’s good. The fuck are you worried about?”

The redhead releases a long sigh and smiles. “Just wondered how you’d react… Sorry,” he adds, after receiving one of Mickey’s murderous looks.

“But what the fuck happened?” Mickey presses, carefully bringing a hand up to rub his eye. Ian watches his movement closely, as though afraid they won’t actually work. His right eye doesn’t feel very good. But he remembers it being unable to open a while ago so he guesses it’s getting better. How long ago though? How long’s he been out? He’s fucking disoriented here! It’s annoying as shit! “I guess he got me? I can’t remember shit past that night."

Ian’s eyes are widening and he’s looking around. Mickey realizes he wishes a doctor would come in and put him to sleep.

“Come on, Bambi, fucking tell me. Lip was gonna use his lip, right? But then, what?”

“I…yeah, he got you, Mickey… I…I can’t do this shit now, you shouldn’t…just please fucking sleep, Mick… You shouldn’t...you shouldn’t have to worry about this.” Ian’s begging at that point and everything’s starting to ache again anyway so Mickey agrees and slips back into dreamland.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes, everything hurts including his brain and his heart. He remembers. He remembers going on a fucking early-morning walk. He remembers the fists raining down, the bullet to his stomach, the fucking filth and hate spilling from his dad’s mouth as he beat him to death. He remembers lifting his hand and finding it drenched in his own blood… His dad had yelled something about watching him drown in his faggoty blood...

He feels fucking sick and he wants Ian.

Where’s Ian? The room is somewhat dark, so he assumes it’s at night. He turns his head and finds the redhead slumped out across two chairs, holding onto one of his hands as usual.

He squeezes that hand, but it doesn’t work. So he squeezes a little harder and this time Ian comes awake. “Jesus fuckin…Mick?”

“I remember, Ian,” he whispers, finding his voice scratchy and unsure, wavering on Ian’s name. Then he throws up all over himself. He wants Ian to hold him but he’s fucking gross now, the redhead won’t want to. “Please..?” he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but Ian seems to. Gentle...the fucking softest, gentlest hands are on his face and his neck and his head, holding, touching...

The tears are coming, hot and thick and fast, he feels hot and sick all over… His whole body is shaking, gagging, hyperventilating; he feels like he's being strangled. His dad is everywhere, screaming, but Ian’s got him now…

“He’s gone, Mickey…his fucking filthy hands are not touching you again, alright? You’re okay, Mick. You’re safe…you’re fucking safe. I’m not letting you out of my fucking sight,” Ian whimpers, pressing kisses all over his face. But Mickey just can’t stop crying…

It hurts so fucking much...

 

* * *

 

“Tell me what the hell happened,” he commands the next time he wakes.

They’re all there again. Fiona, and Lip and Carl and Debbie and Liam and now he sees Mandy for the first time, too. She’s got a hold on his spare hand. Spare, because his right hand is Ian’s. He wants to see Yevgeny, just to make fucking sure he’s alright.

 Last night is like a bad dream; he remembers the smell of his vomit, the feel of Ian’s fingers on his neck, the blinking of one of the monitors near his bed. But the pain is distant. Like a vivid goddamn nightmare. Clear, but detached.

Everyone looks around uneasily until Lip blurts out. “Jesus Christ! This is Mickey fucking Milkovich, he can fucking handle the truth.” Lip’s been the most reasonable person throughout this whole nightmare. Mickey’s really starting to like him.

No one says anything so Lip pulls up a chair and starts talking. “I woke up first. Went upstairs to get some clothes and noticed you were gone, so I woke Ian who started freaking the fuck out. When we realized your phone was right there, everyone started freaking the fuck out. We called the police, told them to get out searching them we went out ourselves in pairs. Ian and Svetlana, Me and Debs, and Fiona and Carl. They found you, Fiona and Carl could hear your father yelling shit. Uh…Terry was fucking… Fuck!...You were bleeding out on the fucking pavement-“

“Lip! Shut the fuck up!” That’s Mandy. He wants to tell her to shut the fuck up.

“Uh…right. So, uh…Carl shot him. He’d taken one of your handguns with him and he shot the bastard right in the head. He saved your life. Turned your head so you didn’t choke, held his hands over the fucking gunshot wound till the EMTs arrived...”

Everyone’s looking at Carl now who shrugs… “I used to read Ian’s army shit,” he mutters, looking away. But the kid still looks fucking traumatized. Then again, he always looks a little dazed. Mickey realizes he’s got tears in his own eyes. What is this shit? Can’t he take a fucking story?

“So anyway,” Lip continues. “Everyone showed up, Ian was losing his shit. We all were really. Cops showed up too, fuckers wanted us in the station so Carl and I went. Got shit sorted out. It’s all cool, they saw the situation,” he adds hastily when Mickey opens his mouth to speak. “You were touch and go for a while, man… Couldn’t remember shit for the first few days either… We thought you'd lost it, fucking....brain damage. You kept thrashing around so they had to tie you down. You had no idea who the hell we were. Fucking scary, man.” Lip rubs a hand over his eyes.

“I…I’m sorry,” he mutters looking at Ian, trying to choke down his tears. There are seven people watching right now. He cannot fucking cry. But that’s exactly what he’s doing. “I shouldn’t have…I, fuck, I messed up, going out…”

“Shut up, Mick,” Ian mutters, closing in and pressing a kiss to his mouth, possibly the only part of his body that doesn’t hurt. He’s on some pretty fucking heavy pain meds, though, so all the aching is just that; aching. And he shouldn't be kissing in front of all these people.

But he realizes it doesn’t really matter. They’re his fucking family. For better or for worse. They know all his shit, he knows all their shit and he’s okay with that. They’re a damn good gang.

 

* * *

 

The recovery is slow and painstaking. Mild to Moderate TBI…Gunshot wound to the abdomen…fancy-ass way of saying he got shot in the fucking stomach…eyelid laceration…what the fuck?! Skull fracture…no hemorrhaging, he got lucky, they say, they didn’t have to dig into his head…a broken jaw…the list goes on and on…he’s expected to make a full recovery…He’s fucking lucky.

He stays in the hospital for two more weeks, where he’d go fucking insane if not for having a nearly constant rotation of visitors. Lumpy is with him 24/7. He’ll have to sweep everyone’s phone and make sure there are no pictures of him and the fucking elephant in them. Except Ian’s. If Ian wants, he can have a picture of him and Old Lumps. Ian’s also with him 24/7 and he’s more helpful than Lumpy.

He gives his doctors as much shit as he deems they can handle without putting him down and then he gives them some more. They still don’t put him down. But that might be because Ian’s glued to his side like a guard dog.

Fiona sits near him and doesn’t say much. Sometimes she squeezes his hand, sometimes she presses a kiss to his forehead, but most of the time she just watches him, with those classic Gallagher puppy eyes. He's kind of powerless to stop her physically, but he can just tell her to stop, except he doesn't.

Lip takes it upon himself to make sure he never gets bored, dumping all sorts of shit on him. A fucking tablet, books he can't read, magazines he skims through, and lots of smart-ass comments.

Debbie sneaks him food. He can’t really chew so she makes milkshakes and smoothies and brings them over and yells at the doctors if the doctors yell at her.

Carl talks, surprisingly. Very quietly and dully, but talking nevertheless. That kid says some fucking weird shit. He thanks him a few times but Carl hates it and tells him to shut up and that he’d do the same for them. He fucking would.

Liam doesn’t come as much but when he does, he sits on the bed and draws and watches shit on the tablet and tells Mickey who he beat up that day. Shit, he created a fucking monster.

Ian does all of the above, except for Liam’s bit, and more. He holds him when he starts to shake. He kisses him when he’s feeling like shit. He does both and whispers ‘I love you’ when he starts to cry.

When Mickey feels well enough, Ian climbs in beside him and they sleep together. The fucking hospital bed is bigger than that piece of shit at the Gallagher house. One night, he asks Ian to jerk him off; Ian goes a step further and blows him. He’s glad to find out that his dick still functions, he’d been wondering…

Svetlana brings Yevgeny around and he has his son in his lap, free, for the first time, of the monster who gave him the kid.

Mandy comes around and holds both his hand and Ian’s.

Other people visit him too. Kev and Vee with their rugrats, Iggy, a couple of times, Colin, once. His fucking weird aunt with the guns who he remembers Mandy staying at. He tries hard not to think about his dad and their last moments together.

His cocktail of painkillers gets weaker and the pain gets stronger.

They finally release him and he’s back in his house, but not back to normal. They seem to think that he’s still in the hospital, though, because all the fucking Gallaghers are around all the time, doting on him like he’s some bitch. He tells Ian to tell them to fuck off and they do…for a couple of days. He tell them to fuck off himself and they do...for about a week.

He gets these fucking headaches often. He’s sensitive to light and sound like he’s never been before. The TV in the house stays silent and the curtains stay drawn. He sleeps a lot too. In his bed, at the kitchen table, on the couch with his head in Ian’s lap as the redhead reads to him.

He goes to his doctor’s appointments and they say this shit’s normal and it’s gonna take time. It’s taking too fucking long for his liking. But they’re right.

The months pass and he does get better. The bruises heal, the pain eases, the headaches come less often and shit goes back to normal. Except the fucking Gallaghers are still there, every step of the fucking way. And damn it, he doesn’t mind. They’re his fucking family.

 

The End :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks you for reading :D The medical bits, the amnesia, I wrote really quickly so I apologize if they're highly inaccurate. Same goes for the legal parts.  
> Let me know what you think <3


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